Stanley and the Guitar
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Stanley went down a way different path than canon, ended up with 9 fingers, scars, an eye patch, oh and a guitar. Sorry, summary sucks. Mystery Trio au. Will be updating. Rated T because I'm paranoid. All my multi-chaptered fics are rated T for the angst.
1. Reunions

**So I was thinking, what if Stan really needed the eye patch, (because of a scar.)? What if someone who knew both twins tortured Stan by cutting off one of his fingers? I imagine the taunt would be like 'Maybe your brother could give you one of his, even things out.' or something like that. What if Stan could play the guitar? Also, no Bill Cipher, Fidds is there researching the paranormal with Ford.**

 **So this was born. Welcome to my own version of Mystery Trio! Actually, almost everything I write has or will have Mystery Trio. Sorry, but not really. Enjoy!**

Fiddleford was driving to the store. They had just run out of coffee (again) and Stanford was sketching out a new creature they had discovered (the Leprecorn was truly useless.) before he could forget the details, so that left Fiddleford to go shopping. Fidds didn't really mind, although it was a bit tedious, but he enjoyed socializing, unlike Ford who, as far as Fiddleford could tell, had no other friends than Fidds himself.

When Fidds drove up to the only grocery store in town, Dusk 2 Dawn, his gaze fell on a man that was sitting outside the store on a camping chair.

For a moment, Fidds thought maybe he was another one of Ford's paranormal creatures, but no dice. He was just very scary looking.

Parking the car, Fidds managed to get a proper look at the man from his car. He reminded Fiddleford of a pirate. He had an eyepatch over his right eye and looked like he didn't know what a shower was. His face looked rather scruffed up. The only part that didn't fit the pirate theory was the large acoustic guitar.

Climbing out of the car, Fidds joined the small group that was listening to the man play. The song was fast and upbeat, something Fidds could play on his banjo no problem. The song finished and the man's hands slowed to a stop.

Ever since meeting Ford, Fidds found hands to be rather interesting. They were one of the most complicated limbs in the entire body. So, whenever he was out and about, Fidds looked at people's hands. Just as he did now. Fidds barely glanced at them, but then did a double take. Something seemed off...

Fidds didn't need to count them to know he was right. The man had nine fingers. The pinkie on his left hand looked to be forcibly removed. _Now, what's the story behind that? In fact, what's the story behind all of this man? Maybe a homeless veteran? Happens often enough._

Fiddleford watched as the crowd dispersed and the man bent down, reaching towards something. _Is that a fez?_ The man picked it up, looked inside, and sighed. Fidds realized it was being used as a collecting tin. _Most probably homeless then, poor man._

He felt a sadness fill him at the sight. The man was talented and had obviously been through a lot. The closer he looked, the more details he saw. The long, unbrushed hair, the scars all over his exposed skin, and the way he held himself like the world were pressing down on his shoulders.

Fiddleford was both terrified and sad all at the same time. In a rare rush of courage, Fiddleford walked up to the man. The man noticed and smiled. It was so wide Fidds thought it was a miracle his face hadn't split in two. The man's voice was deep and growl like when he spoke.

" Enjoy the show? What instrument do you play? Don't looked surprised, I can see the callouses on ya fingers."

Guess he wasn't the only one who looked at hands. Fiddleford smiled and cleared his throat. " I-uh. I play the banjo. I'm Fiddleford by the way. Fiddleford McGucket."

The man raised his only visible eyebrow. " The name's Stan."

Fidds smiled and started to twitch nervously. Stan seemed to be aware that Fidds was nervous because he started getting ready to leave, placing the camping chair over his shoulder.

" Well, see ya."

Fidds shouted out, his voice ringing clearly in the now empty parking lot. " No! I mean, uh. " Fidds hesitated when Stan listened and stopped, waiting for him to say something.  
" Well, I was wonderin' if ya wanted to, uh, come to lunch? I was gonna go shopping for coffee, 'cause we're out an then grab somethin' ta eat? I just wanted ta see if ya wanted to come is all." Fidds thought maybe the man would smile and refuse or smile and accept. Anything with smiling really, the man seemed incapable of anything short of a grin. Until of course, when his grin fell and he looked confused.

" What?"

Fidds jumped a little at the blunt, confused tone of Stan's voice. What was so confusing about it?

" Um. Yeah. I- you don't have to come. I can go grab my boss and we can all go together? I mean, if you want." Fidds brow furrowed in concern as Stan's face got even more flustered and confused than before.

" Nah, I understand that, but _why?_ You barely know me. I could be a murder or, or something." Stan stepped back, as if he was more concerned that _Fiddleford_ was the murder. Fiddleford's heart broke all over again. Had no one ever offered this man a meal before?

Stan noticed the concern in Fidds eyes and immediately backtracked, " Look, thanks for the offer Pal, but you don't wanna hang around a guy like me. Just do yourself a favor and go home."

Fiddleford watched as Stan turned and left, heading towards a busted up El diablo. _I wonder what all that hullabaloo was about._ _At least he has a car to stay in._ Fidds thought as he turned to walk into the store, unaware that Stan was watching him with a small smile.

"Some people are too good for this world. They don't need me messing it up for 'em." **  
**

* * *

Fiddleford got back home without incident and after a couple weeks without seeing the man, Fiddleford eventually forgot about him. He never got to mention the incident to Ford, who was always distracted with one thing or another. So, when Fiddleford caught sight of the man outside the same store, he took a moment to remember why he recognized this man. _Stan, his name is Stan. What is he doing back in town?_

Fidds got out of his car and made to approach the wanderer. Stan was strumming the guitar lazily, no real audience around to captivate. He looked up from his strumming as Fiddleford approached.

The grin was as painful looking as ever and, despite looking physically impossible, Fidds was glad of it. Better to look like a cartoon than the rugged wild man he seemed when the smile was gone.

" Well, look at that. It's Fiddlesticks. Never thought I'd be meeting ya again." The man set his guitar aside, obviously expecting a conversation. Fidds laughed nervously, standing awkwardly to the side.

"Likewise, Stan, right?" Fiddleford was used to nicknames, so he wasn't too fazed when Stan opted to use one.

Stan nodded and snickered, looking completely relaxed. " You back for more coffee? Looks to me you should lay off it. Your more fidgety than a kid after their first horror flick."

Fidds laugh was slightly more calm, knowing he had no real reason to be anxious. " Sorry, I like socializin' an all, but you're kinda terrifying."

Fiddleford slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing what he had just said. He looked nervously over at Stan, who was laughing it off with the wave of hand. ( The right one, with all five fingers, Fidds noticed.)

" I get that a lot. I think it's my voice. I sound like an angry dragon! Can't sing to save my life." Stan chuckled again and glanced at Fidds, who slowly relaxed again.

Fidds smiled and started to gaze out into the parking lot, getting lost in thought. _Maybe he'll join me for lunch this time. He seems so...fascinating, as Ford would put it._ And Fiddleford couldn't deny the man looked unbearably skinny. Skinnier than the last time they'd met.

Fiddleford snapped out of his thoughts when a horrible noise reached his ears and he yelped at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts. The noise was worse than nails on a chalkboard. Fidds looked around for the cause when it stopped, until he heard a different noise. Stan's laughter.

" Told ya I couldn't sing. Are ya okay? Seemed to be gettin' a little lost there for a moment."

Fiddleford gaped at him, " Tha' wasn't you. Tha' was a sound from the seventh circle of Hades! A human can't make a noise tha' horrific." Fidds shuddered when Stan decided to demonstrate what an awful singer he was again. Fidds clamped his hands around his ears. " All right! I'm sorry! Just make it stop!"

Stan's grin, if possible, grew wider. " He-he, told ya." Stan leaned back into his chair, and they fell into a ( uncomfortable, in Fiddleford's case,) silence.

Fidds scratched the back of his head, unsure how Stan would respond to another invitation. " Oh, well. Stan. I do need ta get ta my shoppin', but your welcome to pop by the house if ya want. 618 gopher road. Ya can't miss it." Fidds left without another word, unsure if Stan would just flat out refuse again if he stayed.

* * *

Fiddleford was a natural caretaker. He hated to see people go hungry or get hurt and he would do anything in his power to help them. That's how Stan become a sort of project of his. Normally, Fiddleford would help someone with this or that and they would never see each other again, ( not because Fidds didn't want to, but because they had moved on to other places.) but every time Fidds went shopping, Stan was there, outside the shop, as if waiting for him. So Fiddleford would walk up and they would talk, and Fidds would leave after giving Stan another invitation to lunch or if he wanted something from the store, and Stan would refuse.

Fiddleford was starting to get a little fed up. Why couldn't this man just take a meal and leave his heart a little fuller? Fidds loved helping people, it was just who he was. What he wasn't aware of was that he was helping Stan just by talking to him.

Being Stan Pines was lonely work. Everyone he loved thought he was dead, including his twin brother, who he hadn't seen in over eight years. Fiddleford was the first person to talked to him consistently in the same amount of time. Stan had forgotten how great having a friend was. Someone he could chat with without worrying whether he would be murdered for saying the wrong thing or looking guilty.

 _That man is really a heaven send. I haven't had this much fun in...awhile._

As a general rule, Stan Pines did not have fun. Sure, he smiled a lot and laughed here and there, but he knew that it was just an act. A mask. Stanley Pines hadn't laughed a genuine chuckle for years. Until he met this weird nerd. In fact, he liked how much Fidds reminded him of Ford. Fidds wasn't as nerdy as his brother, but he was pretty dang close. Stan felt himself slipping into old memories of Ford rambling off in nerd speak while he teased Ford for being such a bookworm as Fiddlesticks went on and on about some robot he had made.

They were four weeks into this routine when Stan finally accepted one of Fiddlenerds invitations.

Stan had a bad run that week and was even hungrier than usual. He started thinking about how nice even a salad would taste at that point when Fidds offered and Stan answered without meaning too, giving Fidds an abrupt, but not unwelcome, 'Sure.'

Fiddleford was thrilled! Not only did Stan except his invitation to lunch, but he managed to drag Ford out of the house with him, telling him that he needed to 'get some human interaction or he was going to become a potted plant.' Ford was confused whenever Fidds said that, because how can lack of human interaction turn him into a plant, much less a potted one? But it must have made sense to Fidds, because he kept using it.

That afternoon, Fidds walked Stan down to the dinner and told him to stay put while he fetched his 'boss.' Stan still didn't know this guys name, because Fiddleford was a true believer in first introductions and wanted Ford to get some practice in along with making a good impression. Why a homeless man's opinion mattered, was completely incomprehensible to Stan, but he let it slide. Everyone had their quirks.

Stan had been sitting in the corner of the dinner, right hand tapping the table in a quick, rhythmic beat, when he saw Fiddleford walk in. Stan sighed in relief and turned his gaze to the man beside his friend.

Stan froze.

It was _him._

A pressure built inside Stan's chest as they walked closer. It was obvious his twin didn't recognize him, but who would? He definitely didn't look like Stanley Pines his brother had known. Stan felt like he wanted to scream, or cry. He wasn't sure which.

Stan's grin was plastered on his face as his mind stayed utterly blank. What was he supposed to do? Run for it? No. Stanley Pines never ran. But he couldn't fight either. The two reflexes he had been using the last eight years to survive were utterly useless to him now as he watched the two nerds settle in the seats across from him.

" Stan?"

Fidds voice cut through the panic that had been quickly drowning him. Stan blinked a couple times before returning his attention to Fidds and Ford, who were both gazing at him in concern. Pulling his act together, Stan laughed.

" Sorry. Got stuck in my own head for a moment. Maybe you should've started to sing Fidds. Although, not sure it would have the same affect." Stan internally sighed in relief as his words had the desired affect. Fidds had turned to Ford to explain the inside joke between the two, giving more time for Stan to think. Unfortunately, it was a short story.

* * *

Ford studied Fiddlefords friend with interest. He had obviously been through a lot. He looked older than both him and Ford and his eyes spoke of a deep understanding of the world around him, despite the large grin plastered on his face.

When Fidds said his name, Ford did a double take.

 _Of course, Stan is a very common name. Don't get your hopes up, Ford. Stan died years ago, remember?_

Ford had read the article in the newspaper. A teenage boy killed in fiery car accident. The body unidentifiable, but the car was traced back to Stanley who matched the profile of the body. Six feet tall, broad shoulders.

Stan was dead. And he had done nothing to prevent it.

Ford had spent weeks, completely inconsolable. He just couldn't believe Stan was dead, he would _feel_ it. But then logic took over and everyone was consoling him and then there was almost no way to doubt it. It was a fact.

But it still didn't feel right, but Ford was never good with human emotions and he supposed it was just him in denial. His last words to his brother were ones of anger after all, no one would want to end something like that.

So Ford moved on. He tried not to think about it. What was in the past was in the past after all, and he couldn't change the facts.

Ford was broken out of his thoughts as Fidds regaled him with a story about this Stan's awful singing. Ford laughed at all the right moments, and after the story had ended, turned his attention back to the man in front of him. Ford raised an eyebrow at Stan and Stan looked confused.

" What?"

" Well, Stan. My name just happens to be Stanford Pines. I find our names amusing. Nice to meet you by the way. Fiddleford holds you in high regard." Ford smiled kindly. Fidds thought Ford was doing a good job. That is, until Stan stood and left without another word.

Fidds felt confusion and concern flood him, making him follow after his friend, " Stan, where ya goin'? Was it somethin' we said?" Fidds ran after Stan out the door and Ford followed him, just as concerned that he had somehow offended the man.

They walked outside and started to call for him, not seeing him anywhere, until Fidds recognized Stan's car. Fiddleford ran towards it and beckoned for Ford to follow.

Walking up to the window, they saw Stan curled up in the front seat, sitting criss-crossed. He was staring at a photograph. Fidds taped on the widow, while Ford stood to the side. Feeling a bit awkward at the situation. He really wasn't great with people.

Stan looked up to see Fidds taping on his window. He caught sight of his brother in his peripheral vision and started to bang his head against the steering wheel. Stan never cried, no matter how much he felt like it.

Fidds' eyes widened in alarm and he quickly flung the door open. Thanking the universe it was unlocked. Fidds quickly pushed Stan back into the seat, head far from the wheel as possible.

" What in tarnation was tha' Stan?"

Ford look over Fidds shoulder, " Um, are you alright? I didn't mean to upset you."

They watched as Stan started laughing hysterically, and neither of them were sure what to do. Fidds whispered to Ford behind his hand, a worried glint to his eye, " He doesn't normally act like this. I don't know what's going on!"

It took a while for Stan to stop and when he did, he looked Ford straight in the eyes. Ford stared back, unsure if this was some sort of test or something. He squirmed slightly as the staring contest went on for a full minute before Stan said anything.

" Ya really don't recognize me, do ya?"

Ford stared, this time with confusion. Was he supposed to know this man? _What if it's...? No. Not possible._

Ford shook his head, concern visible. " I'm sorry, am I supposed to?"

Stan looked back at the photo in his hands and handed it to Ford. Ford liked facts. The photo was definitely a fact. Stan's grin was gone. Replaced by something so old and young and weak and strong and tired and excited that just looking at him would give anyone a complex.

Ford took the photo gingerly, seeing how old and careworn it was. His eyes locked on the caption, his mind better suited to words than pictures.

 _Stanley and Stanford Pines: Learning to box! So proud._

Ford's mind blanked. Then it was in overdrive. _How did this man get this? This car does look familiar, like the one I got Stan for his birthday...but that's impossible. But Stan liked the impossible. And how else could he have this photo? And this man's name was Stan. He doesn't look like Stan. He doesn't even look like me. He looks more like a war veteran. But he was kicked out at 17. But this couldn't be Stan, because Stan is dead. Stan is Dead. Stan is Dead. Dead, gone, passed. Nonononononononononono! The facts!_

 _You never felt right about his death. It never felt right. but this does._

Ford's voice was suddenly raspy with emotion.

" S-Stanley? But, but you died! I-I. You're dead."

Stanley- no. Not Stanley because Stanley was dead- flinched.

" Sorry Sixer, but it was necessary at the time. And I thought you were happy with me gone...guess I was wrong?"

Ford winced at he old nickname. Only Stan called him that. Only Stan knew. Things only Stan knew...

" What's your other nickname for me?" Ford quizzed him, slipping into his analytical persona. It was easier that way. No emotion...

" Pointdexter. Do you not believe me? I don't blame ya if you don't..."

" How did you acquire this photo?"

" Ma slipped it into the duffel bag before pa threw it at me."

" How do we celebrate our birthdays?"

" A half chocolate, half vanilla cake and working on the Stan 'o war. Well, not recently, but before everything happened anyway."

" Why did you fake your death?" Fidds was watching the scene play out, utterly confused, but didn't interrupt.

" After Pop kicked me out I got into some tough crowds. Let my mouth run away with me a little to often. Faked it to make them think I was dead so they wouldn't look for me."

Ford started to shake. Facts. These were facts. List the facts, make a conclusion.

Fact 1. Man claims to be his brother who acts, and knows much about his brother and goes by Stan.

Fact 2. Body was unidentified.

Wait. The body.

Ford shook harder. " T-the body? YOUR BODY?"

Stan winced again and shrugged. " Stole it from a morgue. It was a john doe. No one would miss it. I didn't kill anyone if that's what your thinking."

Fact: Man had all the right answers. Man still didn't look like Stan.

" Why do you look so...old?" Ford whispered, the pain starting to bleed through his voice.

Stan shrugged again, " Living on the streets ages ya I guess. Were both twenty-six Ford."

Ford couldn't take it anymore. The pure, raw pain and anger and regret all boiled up in one moment and Ford clocked Stan right in the jaw.

Fidds yelped, but didn't move. He wasn't sure if he had the right to interfere. This was really confusing.

Stan rubbed the spot, he didn't so much as flinch when he saw the hit coming, nor did he yelp when it hit. " I deserved that." Stan muttered, getting out of the car so Ford could have an easier time punching him if he so desired. Stan was a little to tired to deny him the satisfaction. Instead, Stan found himself being hugged tightly, Ford's chin resting on his shoulder.

" Yes, you did." Ford pushed him away again. He pointed an accusing finger at Stan, who leaned away. " Do you know how many years I've spent, regretting everything? I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD. " Ford pushed him again, and Stan stumbled backwards.

Ford felt the anger rush out of him as realization came to him. His brother was alive. Sure bits and pieces were gone and he looked way worse for wear but he was _alive_. Ford sobbed into his hand and ran at Stan again, embracing him in another body crushing hug.

" You're never leaving me again, understand?" Ford's voice quavered. He didn't think he could bare he thought of loosing his brother again.

Stan looked shocked, but returned the hug with a laugh, a pained, desperate sound.

" Never again."

Fidds raised his hand. " Uh, what in the HECK is goin' on here?"

* * *

 **This will continue. I hope you liked it!**

 **Leave reviews if you want them to eat a ton of cake to make up for eight years of missed birthday's.**

 **Stan: I am SO AWESOME in this au.**

 **Ford: Dang. I am...surprised.**

 **ME: I made this au months ago, but I am writing it out a 2 o'clock in the morning months after I made it up. MORE ADVENTURES TO COME!**


	2. Fidds is confused

**One person reviewed, and if you read my other fics, you would know that if even ONE person wants this to continue, it shall. So here ya go!  
**

* * *

Ford was...he wasn't sure. Excited? Surprised, definitely. He was also...grateful? Fidds had found and reunited him with his long lost/ supposedly dead twin! And he didn't even know that Stanley existed! Ford was definitely grateful. Especially now, as Ford could feel all those unresolved feelings bleed away. He knew his brother hand't been dead.

If only he hadn't doubted himself.

Ford wanted to sob. What had his brother gone through? All because he hadn't been there. Ford had been feeling guilty for years, after leaving things the way they were with his brother, but this was worse. Instead of being dead, Stan had gone through the seventh circle of Hades, living on the streets. Ford had so many questions, he wanted to just slap on a bandage and heal his brother and dispose of this awful pit in his stomach, but he couldn't.

What could he do?

Ford pulled himself out of the hug, aware that Fiddleford was saying something, but not really listening. Stanley pulled him back into the hug one last time before letting go.

" I missed ya, Sixer."

Ford sniffed, aware of the tears rolling down his face, but ignoring them for now. Ford punched his brother's arm playfully. " I missed you too, knucklehead."

Fiddleford spoke up again. " Still mightily confused over here!" Fidds waved his hands to get there attention. " Not ta break up the reunion, but wha's goin' on here?!"

Stanley and Ford glanced at each other, neither of them really sure what to say. Stan laughed, the sound painful, but not unhappy. Moving away from Ford, Stan grabbed Fidds by the wrist and pulled him into a hug. Fidds squealed in surprise.

" What's goin' on is you brought my brother ta me, Fidds. Thank you." Stan mumbled. He really didn't like being so sappy, but it seemed appropriate. Stan was just a giant marshmallow anyway, no matter how tough he acted.

Fidds locked eyes with Ford, in silent question. Ford nodded. Stan released him after another moment.

They stood in silence for a moment, before Stan grinned and suggested they go and actually eat lunch now. Fidds couldn't help but think this grin seemed more genuine than the others he had seen.

Ford smiled, but it was strained. When was the last time his brother had a proper meal? They walked back to the diner, none of them quite sure what to say. Fidds was still confused. Ford had never mentioned a brother, much less a twin. That was quite the omission. Stan wasn't sure what was going to happen next. But he thought it would be better than anything he had experienced the last eight years, now that he had his brother back.

Ford was starting to concoct a plan. He wasn't going to let this second chance go to waste.

* * *

 **Pfft. This feels like a filler chapter. Hope you enjoyed! Review if you want Stan to be stubborn as Fidds and Ford try and get his backstory out of him!**

 **Stan: Reviews shmuse, I'll be stubborn either way.**

 **Ford: You can say that again. Your just like dad in that respect.**

 **Stan: I inherited nothing from that scumbag.**

 **Ford: See?**


	3. The best part of all mystery trio au's

**Chapter three fer ya:**

" I want you to come stay with me."

Seven words. Seven, single syllable words.

Seven very difficult words.

Ford knew that's what he wanted, but how was he going to make it sound like Stan was doing Ford a favor? Stan would never accept charity. Not even from his own brother. Ford could recall when Stan would come home from the ring, beaten and bruised. Then their father would tell him to clean the garage or do the dishes and Ford would offer to do it for him. Ford was finished with his work anyway.

Stan would laugh it off. Wave it away. Claiming he was fine, and had to do something to keep him busy before bed anyway. Fiddlefords stories were testament to that. Stan hadn't accepted until today. Ford wondered why that was when it happened.

His epiphany.

Ford cleared his throat. They were sitting in the diner, food cleared away. While Ford was lost in thought, Fiddleford and Stan were swapping stories of...him?

" He walks into the classroom, the look of complete pride on his face at getting all his work done, yeah? And he sets the HUGE stack of papers on Mr. Jergestun's desk right before collapsing! He passed out from pulling a three nighter, right in the middle of the classroom!" Fidds finished his story before turning to Ford, who had cleared his throat again.

" Ford, I'm tryin' ta embarrass ya in front o yer brother o'er here. Spit it out, will ya?" The words sounded exasperated, but a playful smile gave away the game. Ford rolled his eyes as Stan laughed. The sound was deep and soothing, something Ford had missed the last eight years. He drummed his six fingers on the table as he addressed his best and only friends.

" Stanley, I know this is out of the blue, but do you think I can hire you? As long as Fiddleford has no objections, of course."

* * *

Stanley had been enjoying the anecdotes Fidds had of his brother, but he was constantly glancing to the man himself in concern. The look in Ford's eyes was one he was familiar with. Ford was up to something.

Stan just didn't expect for it to be such a _great_ something. He pretended to be confused, although he could see past his brother's ruse faster than a rabbit could run.

Ford wanted him back.

Stan was saved from an answer when Fidds yelped in delight. " Tha's perfect! Why didn't I think 'o tha'? And it wouldn't matter if I did have objections Ford. It's yer house."

 _Wait wait wait a moment._ Stan sat up. He had been slouching and just the small movement turned all eyes on him. He was truly intimidating. ( The guitar didn't help tone it down at all, in fact, it just made it look scarier. Stan relied on the grin to diffuse the atmosphere that he was all too aware of.)

" Let's say I accept, hypothetically. What would I be doing?"

Ford's mouth twitched into a small smile. He had won. They had played the hypothetical game a lot as kids. Saying they would do things, hypothetically, then sneak out and do or at least attempt them. Ford was filled with joy at he prospect of getting to get to know his brother again, and pleased that Stan still remembered such an almost insignificant part of their childhood.

Ford stopped tapping the table and rolled a thirty-eight sided die he kept in his pocket between his fingers, confidently. " Well, protect us I suppose. Fiddleford told you what we do, right? We find, research and nearly get eaten by anomalies in the forest."

Stan raised an eyebrow at the D and D and MD game piece, but didn't comment. His face did break into a grin. " Well I guess I can't have my two nerds getting eaten, can I? Although, why they would go for either of you is a mystery. Your both toothpicks!" Stan chuckled as they crowed in indignation.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

 **I know it sucks. Be nice. I just...Sigh. I'm sick and it's 2 'clock in the morning again and I need to sleep. Love you guys. Don't die! Reviews are much loved and help motivate me, you have no idea.**


	4. Idk What I'm doing

**I reread the last chapter and found spelling errors I'm too lazy to fix. Grammarly! Return to me! I watched Sense and Sensibility writing this. Hence it being so wordy.**

 **Fourth chapter for ya:  
**

* * *

Stan was a mystery that both Fiddleford and Ford were determined to solve. When he moved in he only had one bag, which was to be expected. What they had not expected was the substantial amount of baseball bats he owned. He took to hiding them in the oddest of places and whenever one of them asked about it all he answered was with a gruff, 'don't touch.'

They could assume what they were for anyway. Ford _had_ hired him for protection, after all.

Stanley didn't move in immediately. When he did, he acted...strange at first.

In many aspects, Stan was much the same as he was when they were children. He loved to laugh and make others laugh, he always smiled. But at the same time, his smile seemed forced in certain moments and his mood would swing back and forth worse than a teenage girl's. He never lashed out or anything of the sort to openly display that something was wrong, but he would grow silent, quieter. His eyes would reveal the trials he had lived through, growing older than his years.

These moments would grow less and less common, until Stan seemed rather the same as he did back then, despite the physical changes. Ford knew better.

Stan had his guard up.

But _why_?

Anyone who saw him knew immediately that Stan had been through the ringer. Ford was mentally prepared to hear the stories behind them, expecting atrocities he couldn't imagine his twin going through. But Stan was stubbornly unwilling to share.

Fiddleford told Ford that in their short acquaintance Stan never alluded to anything in his past and both of them thought of ways to get Stan to open up.  
They were scientists after all.

Unfortunately for them, Stan was tougher to crack than a bank safe. Infinitely more so. Considering he himself had opened a few.

Despite this, Ford was enjoying having his twin back. Fidds certainly was too. They were no longer living off coffee for one thing. They had learned rather quickly that Stan was a remarkably good cook. And a mother hen. Stanley refused to let them start working without breakfast or to go to sleep without dinner.

He made them sleep on a schedule too. The first few nights, Stan would carry them to bed from where they fell asleep at their desks. Fidds and Ford both found it rather embarrassing and Stan didn't have to fight too hard to get them to go to bed at a somewhat reasonable hour.

The result was almost instant. The bags disappeared from under their eyes and they found they improved in functioning and made fewer mistakes while working. They were both very grateful for Stan, so when they noticed Stan still looked as unwell as he did when he moved in, they both tried to reciprocate Stan's hard work.

But as said before, Stan was very, very stubborn.

* * *

 **Pfft. This was very very wordy. So, the next chapter shall start up with Ford and Fidds trying to make sure Stanley is ok. Since he still looked awful. Etc. So, lots of fluff. This was 566-word exposition on Stan not giving up the contents of his past, so...we got nowhere, not really. Sorry. Hope you enjoyed!  
**

 **( I looked up a lot of synonyms for this.)**


	5. Help me

**Blop. I love all you people who read all my crappy writing. You guys are amazing. (CrystalFreeze, PrincessMialyn, Jord477, other people who read all of it and don't review! Etc. Thanks for reading and for all the great suggestions!) This has all three POVs Stan, Fidds, then Ford's.  
**

* * *

Stanley was...confused.

He had moved in a couple weeks ago after making sure it was safe. (Couldn't have his past catching up with him, after all.) He thought it was going well. Obviously, the nerds had some bad habits that needed to go, but once they were on a regular diet and sleeping schedule, they started acting...different.

He was used to the questions, he would deflect them easily enough. No, it wasn't the inquiries about his _past_ that were weird. They still acted nice to him, they had fun. They talked a lot.

No. It was the little things. When they asked him if he was still hungry after dinner. _" Nope! All yours." ... " Are ya sure?"..." Yes."_

Or the way they asked if he had slept well. " _How did you sleep, Stanley?"..." Like a rock, Sixer. Now go an eat ya breakfast, nerd."..." Really?"..."Really what, Ford? Go eat."_

Or maybe it was the way they asked if he was alright every time he made any sort of displeased noise. " _Are ya alright, Stanley?"..."Yes Fidds, I'm fine."..."If yer sure."_

That was it. They kept asking him those weird questions.

Stanley wasn't sure what to do.

So he ignored them.

* * *

Fiddleford was up early that morning, so he decided to try his hand at making breakfast. He had two reasons. One, he was bored. Two, he wanted to surprise Stanley, who worked too hard as it was.

Unfortunately, a degree in mechanical engineering did not help when it came to cooking. He ended up scrapping the burnt pancakes, which seemed to be the twins' favorite food and opted instead for a bowl of cereal. Fidds was halfway done with his impromptu bowl of cornflakes when Stan and Ford walked in.

" Ugh, what's tha' awful smell?"

" F, what happened?"

Fidds raised an eyebrow. " Ya two are up late. I tried ta make breakfast. Did you just call me the letter F?"

Stanley walked to the stove to survey the damage and Ford started a pot of coffee. " I was too lazy to use your full name. Nicknames sound more natural in Stan's mouth, so I have now decided you are F since that's what I call you in my Journal. And technically, you were up early. We woke to our alarms."

Fiddleford snorted. " Wow, Stanferd."

Ford shrugged. " Does it bother you?"

Fiddleford shook his head, "Nah, I'm used to weird nicknames. Never really had an aversion ta them anyway."

Their incredibly important conversation was interrupted by Stan's growling voice. " What on earth did ya to this pan, Fidds? In fact, what were ya doin' making breakfast anyway?"

Fidds flushed slightly, embarrassed, " So cookin' ain't my strong suit. I was just tryin' ta make breakfast. I was gonna surprise ya both."

Ford and Fidds shared a look as they witnessed a small frown come over Stan's face, then quickly disappear as it was covered with a playful grin. " Well, at least ya didn't burn the house down. That's better than Ford ever was!"

Ford gasped and quickly started a counter-argument, but Fiddleford noted Stan's frown and that he still looked exhausted.

While they were arguing, Stanley was scrubbing the pan that Fidds had nearly ruined. Fiddleford frowned.

" Stanley, come have breakfast. I'll get the dishes afterwerd."

Stanley looked up and glanced back at the dirty pan before shrugging. " Alrigh'."

Fiddleford sighed internally. Knowing Stanley, they would be done before he could get to them.

* * *

Ford and Stanley didn't fall back into their old habits immediately. Ford noticed that if he made a sudden movement or laughed too loudly, Stan would tense or flinch, almost imperceptibly. He told Fiddleford what he'd noticed and Fidds confirmed that only Ford could see these little ticks. Probably because he knew Stanley so much longer. ( Being twin brothers would do that to ya.)

They were close together often, however. Wherever Ford was, Stanley was there, and vise versa. They had a lot to catch up on, after all. Even though 'catching up' meant Ford telling stories and Stan listening. Stan was stubborn as ever.

In fact, the first time Ford asked Stanley what had happened those eight years, well...

Fiddleford wasn't around. He was at the grocery store again, (With a proper grocery list this time, courtesy of Stan.) So Ford took the opportunity to show Stanley some of the more hospitable haunts. He was showing Stanley the Pixie's grove and watched as Stanley conversed with a particular Pixie that had taken a dislike to Ford, but seemed to like Stan just fine. Ford hung back since he didn't feel like being spat at. ( He still wasn't sure how he managed to offend Treyvon so horribly after one conversation.)

Stanley walked back to Ford with a satisfied smirk. " I dunno what ya did Sixer, but he'd got it out for ya. Don' worry. I managed to convince him your just an insensitive nerd."

Ford looked behind Stan to see the Treyvon give him a nod before flying off. Ford's eyebrows shot up and a grin spread across his face. " Stanley, that's the most receptive interaction I've ever got from him! How do you do it?"

Stan shrugged and fiddled with the strings on his guitar that he insisted on bringing with him whenever he left the house. Ford sat down on the log next to him. " No really. what happened those eight years, Stanley?"

Stan growled in a way that Ford was beginning to believe was his version of a grunt and not a growl at all. Ford was admittedly a little scared of his twin. He had changed so much...

" You don' wanna hear and I don' wanna tell, Poindexter."

Ford sighed. " On the contrary..."

Stanley sighed along with him. " Don't Sixer. I ain't one of your nerd projects."

Ford hated feeling like there was a rift. One that Ford had started... It nearly killed him. But Stan was was still Stan, and Ford wouldn't give up on him. Not again.

* * *

 **Idk what this is, hope you like!**

 **Stan: What's up with you Carmen?! Ya haven't posted in forever! On any of your stories!**

 **Ford: I concur, you've been acting out of the ordinary.**

 **Me: *sigh* I'm just...eh. Sorry readers. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	6. Nightmares and shocks

**I challenge the eight followers I have on this story to all review at least once. I'd enjoy a little more feedback if that's alright. (Please? Don't be shy!)**

 **Uhh, Trigger Warnings: Get's kinda dark. Consider Stan's appearance and imagine a backstory for that and there are your trigger warnings.**

* * *

 _His lungs burned and he felt his feet drag beneath him as he tried to force himself to run faster. The yelling and footsteps got louder and louder each second and Stanley could feel his heart beating right out of his chest. He turned down an alleyway only to stop._

 _A dead end._

 _Facing his attackers, Stanley slipped his hands into the frayed pockets of his jeans and brought them out adorned with knuckle busters. The gold glinted in the dim light of the alleyway and Stan tried not to show his fear as they cornered him._

 _" Well, look who it is! If it isn't Stetson Pinefield! Or should I say, Hal Forrester? Maybe, Andrew?" The leader-Jack-sneered._

 _Jack was an old 'acquaintance.' They grew up in Glass-shard beach together. Jack was one of his old bullies from elementary. Stan felt his heart pick up speed, but ignored it as he growled a warning._

 _Jack chuckled darkly. " Growling? Really Stanley? That is so...you. You were never as articulate as your brother." Jack waved his associates forward. "Get 'im."_

 _Stanley punched out at least three of Jack's cronies before one snuck up behind him and bludgeoned him in the head. The world swayed in his vision and everything went dark._

 _..._

Stan blinked wearily. He had enough nightmares to stop gasping for breath every time he woke up, but it was still shocking. _It felt so real._

He traced the stub of his left pinky with his other hand. He recalled everything from those days. The worst days of his life.  
Jack was truly the connoisseur of torture. Stan shuddered and sat up. He was in his room, the one that Ford had given him. It was fairly barren at the moment, considering Stanley didn't have many things of sentimental value, or of any value really. It did have a nightstand, desk and a closet, and that was good enough for him. Though, he wasn't sure what he would use the desk for.

Stan glanced at the clock on the wall. It read _1:30._ Stan assumed, since it was still dark out, that 1:30 meant one a.m. He groaned and sat up. He wasn't going to be able to sleep anymore, anyway. Might as well get some work done.

Stan didn't flinch at the sharp cold of the wooden floor against his bare feet. (It was summer, but the A.C was as almost a great of a worker as Stan was.) It was comforting, almost. It made him feel a bit more real. He snatched up his jacket (the room was chilly now that he was out of the warm confines of his bed) and as quietly as he could, snuck out of his room, down the stairs.

He skipped the last step, more than aware of how loudly it creaked and made his way confidently in the dark to the kitchen. There was always something to clean there. Perhaps he could do a load of dishes. Get his mind away in some mindless work...

Stan stopped abruptly.

Voices.

Stooping low, Stan reached out towards one of the many baseball bats he had hidden around the house for this exact purpose. He stayed low to the ground as he approached the kitchen.

The light was on, and Stan blinked as his eyes adjusted. He nearly dropped the bat in surprise.

Both Ford and Fidds were in the kitchen, chatting quietly. But that wasn't the most astonishing thing about the scene. It was the fact that they were baking. Fidds whined and chuckled as Ford flicked flour in his hair and Ford ducked as Fidds flung a spoonful of batter in retaliation. They were both wearing aprons and smiling contentedly. _Do they always do this? What is going on?_

Stan stood subconsciously and let the bat fall to his side. It didn't it the floor, but the momentum swung it towards the wall beside him and resounded with a solid _Thud!_

Ford and Fidds reactions were immediate. Fidds jumped a mile in the air, while Ford turned towards the source of the noise. Ford was the first one to recover. He laughed self-consciously.

" I think we were caught, F." Ford scratched the back of his head but smiled. Fidds shook out of his shock. He chuckled good-naturedly. " I suppose we were." Ford and Fidds shared a glance, then spoke simultaneously.

" Surprise!" Ford through his hands in the air, getting even more flour everywhere and Fiddleford did the goofy jazz-hands bit. Both were smiling like morons.

Stanley was mildly amused, but his shock didn't reveal it. He managed to choke out a- "What?"

Ford's grin faded slightly. "What, what? Stanley, don't you know what tomorrow- or I suppose today if we're being technical-"

"Just get on with it Stanferd." Ford cleared his throat.

"Of course, it's our birthday, Stanley."

Stan didn't move.

Ford looked at Fidds, unsure of what to do. Fidds shrugged as if to say 'he's your twin, why ya lookin' at me fer?'.

Stanley was mentally smacking himself. Of course! How could he forget? _A better question is why would I remember?_ Stanley hadn't celebrated his birthday since the day he was kicked out of the house eight years ago. Nearly nine now. (He was kicked out shortly after their birthday. It was a summer school science fair.)

All Stan could think to say was, "Oh."

He let the bat drop to the ground and let himself slide down the wall. He buried his head in his hands. Elbows resting on his knees. He felt stupid now. _Of course, I would forget our birthday, brother number one over here._

* * *

Ford watched as Stan sat against the wall. He felt a weight settle over his chest as he watched his twin try and pull himself together. _He was holding a bat, we must have really freaked him out._ Ford let his legs guide him to his brother's side and gently wrap an arm around his slumped shoulders. He noticed Stan flinch from the unexpected contact, but neither pulled away. Fiddleford sat on the other side of Stanley and looked over helplessly at Ford. Ford shrugged. He didn't know what he was doing either.

Stanley was still slouched over and Ford tried tugging him closer, but Stanley was like a large boulder. Ford wasn't even sure he could feel Ford's pathetic attempt at moving him. " Stanley, I'm sorry. We didn't mean to frighten you..."

Stanley shot up, "What? You thought you scared me? Ford! I'm upset because I forgot our birthday! What sort of brother does that!?" Ford flinched away and Stan remembered the intimidating aura he tends to put off. He tried to make himself seem smaller and pulled Ford back into another hug. Ford was confused but didn't mind. Stanley mumbled into the back of Ford's head.

" It would take a lot more than two wayward nerds ta scare me, Sixer. I just haven't celebrated our birthday in eight years. I'm...surprised." Stan lightly pushed Ford away from him. He chuckled.

"Guess your plan worked, eh Poindexter? You too Fidds. I really was surprised." The two scientists laughed with him. " I reckon it did," Fiddleford added.

Ford was the first one to end the moment. " So, what now? Want to help us finish the cake? Or we could go to bed...Wait. What were you doing up in the first place, Stanley? Did we wake you up?"

All three of them were still sitting on the floor and Stan stood quickly. " Yeah. So, you nerds wanna bake a cake or what?" Stanley dusted himself off and held out both his hands to either of them, but neither moved.

Fiddleford sighed and Ford adjusted his glasses. "Stanley..." Ford started, " We both know you're avoiding the question. You can talk to us you know. Or I could tell F to scram if that makes you feel better." Ford smirked slightly when Fidds made an offended noise but didn't comment. If leaving made Stanley feel better, Fidds wasn't objecting to it.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to do this right now. He was tired and in reality, a little shaken from everything, even if he didn't show it. He growled in annoyance.

"Ford, I'm fine."

"You've always been a fibber Stan. Just tell us what's wrong. Please."

Oh gosh, Ford was _pouting_. Stan smirked into his hand. "Ford, stop pouting."

Ford stuck out his lip further, "Please Stanley?" Fidds chuckled off to the side. The twins were really amusing when they wanted to be.

Stan tried to hold back his laughter, he really did. But Ford's pouty face, something that was so out of place on Ford, got the better of him. He walked off into the hallway and his laughter echoed off the walls.

Fidds and Ford shared matching victorious grins. Stan walked back in looking breathless. "You nerds will be the death of me."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Stanley!"

Stan chuckled, "keep your pants on! If I promise ta tell ya later, will ya drop it? I wanna enjoy the first birthday with my bro in eight years." Stan's grin fell slightly as he pulled them both off the ground.

Fidds and Ford both nodded. Fidds walked back into the kitchen, "I don' think anyone is sleepin' ta'night, so who wants ta decorate the cake?"

Stan and Ford raised there hands in unison. They laughed.

"Well, I suppose ya can share." Fidds pulled out a cake pan. They hadn't gotten a chance to bake the cake before Stan came in.

Ford punched Stan in the arm, and Stan pretended to wince. "Sounds about right to me, F."

Stan grabbed Ford in a chokehold and nuggied his head,

"Hey!" Ford squirmed, but he was laughing.

Stan chuckled with him, "Happy Birthday, Poindexter."

"Happy birthday, ya Knucklehead."

* * *

 **And it dissolved into fluff. The original was more angsty, but my cat deleted the original by sitting on my keyboard so...**

 **yeah. You can blame my cat for this.**

 **The next chapter will be the real angst. I think. Hope you liked anyway. Fidds and Ford team up on Stan a lot, I find it funny.**

 **Stan: When did you write this?**

 **Me: Three in the morning. Duh.**

 **Ford: Be careful Carmen, Stan might force you into a proper sleep schedule if you keep doing this. I would know.**

 **Fiddleford: Did the batter hit its mark?**

 **Me: No. You were really close though.**

 **Please help me, sorry it's kinda crappy, I'm tired. Nighty-night. :)**


	7. A helping hand

**Sorry if this isn't super consistent...  
**

 **This is so weird.**

 **Help. Also, the slavery gig thing is borrowed from someone else's fic. I don't know whose, so credit to the respective owner person. I think I used that in another fic of mine, so yeah.**

* * *

Three days. That's how long Stanford was willing to wait.

It had been seventy-two hours since Stanley told them he would answer their questions. Three sun cycles since Stan told them he was going to give them something as to what he had been doing on the streets for those eight long years.

Ford wasn't going to wait anymore. _Maybe Stanley forgot his promise? Or perhaps he'd hoped I-we would forget? I should speak with Fiddleford, I don't know how to approach this._ Ford found F at his desk. Fiddleford was slumped over, arm beneath his head.

Placing his hand on F's shoulder, Ford gently shook him awake. F turned his head to blink blearily at him. "Hmm?"

Ford chuckled and smiled softly. Paper was stuck to the side of Fiddleford's face and his glasses were lopsided. He looked completely exhausted. Ford's voice was a whisper as not to shock Fiddleford, who had been sleeping in what Ford assumed was complete silence.

"Good afternoon F. Did you sleep at all last night? What are you doing in here?" Ford moved to lean against the edge of the desk while F shook his head to wake himself up. He yawned.

"Greetin's Stanferd. No, I don't reckon I did." F started tidying his desk, looking through the papers, as if searching for something. Ford pulled the post it from the side of his face and handed it to him. Fiddleford looked at it and he nodded after snorting self-deprecatingly.

"Thank ya, Stanferd, that's what I was lookin' fer. Why wouldn't I look fer it on my face?" He added as he stuck it back to the piece of paper it had originally been stuck to. Ford's laughter came in a huff, and he ran his fingers through his hair as he recalled what he had wanted to speak to Fiddleford about in the first place.

"F, do you remember what Stanley told us approximately three days before?"

Fiddleford stopped and placed the papers he had been trying to reorganize back onto the desk. He took a moment to think through the fog of sleep before he answered. "Do ya mean when he said he'd answer our inquiries? I do, but I didn't wanna rush him. By the looks 'o him he's been through things I can't comprehend. I reckon I've only seen war veterans look so worn-down and scarred."

Ford nodded and sighed. He felt a deep guilt and sadness regarding his twin. It was almost overwhelming at times, whenever he saw his brother tracing the stub where his finger had been or scratching his arms at the scars that were overlapped there. Every time Ford felt not only guilt, (because it was his fault, it had to be, he didn't do anything, _anything-_ ) But a burning curiosity, because how does someone get so many scars in eight years? How do you dive so deep into the wrong side of humanity to gain such things, to make it seem _normal?_

He had to know. (Also, the guitar thing was pretty random and intriguing, and something he had already asked Stan about. Stan just shrugged and said 'It's fun.')

Ford pulled off his glasses to rub his eyes. Fiddleford could tell he was upset. He got up and took Ford's hand by the wrist. "C'mon Stanferd, we're gonna get some coffee and yer gonna tell yer brother how ya feel. "

It took a moment for F's words to sink in as Ford followed him without thinking. "Wait, what?" He pulled his wrist out of F's hand and Fiddleford sighed.

"It's an old Mcgucket way of fixin' issues, I like ta call it...wait fer it...communication!" F yelled the last part (not too loudly, but enough) to surprise Ford into following him again.

Ford followed F into the kitchen and sat at the table. Despite that F was the one to just wake up, he was much more active than Ford who sat with his head in his hands. He tried to argue as Fidds made coffee. Argue that he couldn't just say things and make it better, that Stanley was too stubborn, that he wasn't sure he wanted to anyway, but Fiddleford ignored him and made him wait with his cup of coffee as he left to go find Stanley.

Ford was brewing (is that a pun? because coffee brews? I'll shut up now.) over everything that could go awry when F returned with Stanley ten minutes later. Apparently, Stan had been back in town, playing for the folks in the square for no reason. (Because that wasn't suspicious, it wasn't!)

Stanley looked the same as ever. White-T shirt, displaying the many scars on his forearms, and an eyepatch. He did get a haircut after he moved in, but that wasn't new. He still looked absolutely terrifying (To Fiddleford, Ford could still see his brother beneath the intimidating persona.)

He still had his guitar strapped to his back and his smile was as mind-bogglingly wide as ever.

So what was different?

Ford could tell there was something...off about his brother. F didn't seem to notice as he got another cup of coffee for Stan, who was now sitting beside Ford, talking about nothing and everything. Ford looked harder and a light-bulb went off so suddenly in his mind he physically reacted, nearly jumping out of his seat.

Both of them were staring at him. Ford's eyes were wide and he was much louder than he meant to be as he tried to explain himself. He pointed at the table,

"You're hiding!"

Stanley and F continued to stare, completely confused. That was until Stanley had a flashback to the second grade.

 _Sixer and he were eating lunch in the cafeteria, Ford was telling him about a creature he'd read about in a book. Stan thought something was wrong...something looked wrong. He realized Sixer was hiding his hands. His stories were usually much more animated. Stan jumped up and pointed at the table and nearly yelled, "you're hiding!". Ford looked confused until he saw that his hands were beneath the table. Stan told him he shouldn't hide. That using his hands made him a better storyteller. Ford smiled and was a little red from embarrassment, but brought out his hands. Stan never caught him hiding again._

Stan gaped at Ford, then at his own hands. He hadn't even realized. Ford settled down again and picked up his cup of coffee. He murmured. "You shouldn't hide, your hands make you a better storyteller."

(Much to Fidds astonishment) Stan's ears turned red and he laughed as he plopped his head on the table. He laughed and laughed until it was almost hysterical and Ford joined in.

Fiddleford watched on in confusion. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

...

Once they had calmed down, Stan brought out his hands and turned to Fidds. He cleared his throat. "Heh, uh, so what didja drag me back here for?" Stan asked, grasping the mug Fidds handed to him. F raised a brow.

"Are we just gonna ignore everything that just transpired and leave me in the dark?" He asked, sitting down in the only other chair. Stan and Ford shared a look.

"Yes."

"Well, alrigh' then. I brought ya back 'cause ya promised us an explanation. I fer one was okay with waitin', but yer brother was gettin' restless." Fidds smirked when Ford hissed at him.

" _Fiddleford!_ Stop it!" Ford could feel Stanley's gaze on the back of his head. He didn't have the willpower to turn and meet it.

On the other hand, Stanley had gone stone-faced. He looked as if he was made of iron, no emotions. In reality, he was in turmoil, a churning disaster of fear, guilt, pain, and reluctance. He truly did not want to tell them anything about his past. It was gruesome and even his nightmares could not live up to the real deal. They-or more accurately-Fiddleford were waiting for him to say something. He thought back to when he had promised them answers and internally berated himself. _I was so tired I didn't realize what I had said until just now._

Stan knew he couldn't just keep it all from them, they deserved to know the basics at least. He sighed and both looked at him expectantly. _I'll just answer their questions, no need to make a story out of it._

"Ask away."

Their eyebrows raised in tandem and Stan had to wonder whether they were triplets, the way they all harmonized sometimes. Ford, despite his hesitation about it all, asked first. His head hung and he looked up at Stan underneath his brown bangs. He whispered,

"Your hand?"

Stan sighed. He knew that one was coming. He fell back on the habit of tracing his pinky stub as he spoke, his voice deep and rumbling. "Fidds wouldn't know what I'm talking about, but do you remember that boy from school? Not Crampelter, but his crony, Jack?"

Ford nodded, Fidds leaned forward, already enthralled.

"Yeah, this is his fault. I ticked him off, so he got me back. I got away before he could get to my other hand." Stan saw Ford stiffen, and realization crossed his face, Ford glared down at his own fingers, as if they were some sort of unwanted growth. Stan grabbed them into his own hands. His voice was full of authority.

"Don't! Not. Your. Fault."

Ford looked into his eyes. Some say eyes were the windows to the soul. Stan said that people with glasses got to have double-paned windows and that wasn't fair to others. Despite this, Stan knew what they were talking about just then, he could see pain and guilt, a lot of guilt, in his twin's eyes. It made his stomach twist. _This isn't your fault, this isn't your fault-_

Stan took a deep breath through his nose and leaned away, still holding one of Ford's hands. "Next question." Fiddleford looked uncomfortable,

"Maybe I should go..."

Stan shook his head. "Nope. Just ask before I change my mind." Fiddleford looked a little surprised, (and a little terrified,) but shrugged.

"Guess I'll ask the second obvious one. What happened to your eye, Stanley?"

Stanley visibly relaxed. This was one story he was proud of. He grinned and felt the air go softer when everyone relaxed. (He really needed to pay more mind to the atmosphere of the room, considering he contributed so much to it.)

"Alright, so I was doin' this job for a 'friend' of mine. They asked me to transport some 'goods' out of the country, and lo and behold, I get there and the stuff I'm hauling isn't stuff at all! It's people! I got myself into the slave thing. Of course, I wasn't going to stand for that. So I told 'em I would do it, then I drove those poor people to the city and dropped 'em off at random places so they could get away. Nearly got away with it too! But a couple weeks after that, I was doing a boxing gig for a couple bucks and was cornered afterward by the people who hired me. I thought I cleaned up my tracks well and good, but I must have left something behind, how else would they find me other than dumb luck? So I get cornered and they tell me to pay up all the money they lost and I tell 'em that it wasn't money, it was people and they attack me! Weirdly enough, only one of 'em had a gun and I kick that away quick! Two others pull out knives and I just got done kicking some other Rambo's behind so I'm exhausted, but I manage to knock out one, and the last one, we go at it man to man, he manages to slash my eye, but I-" Stan stopped himself. He smiled self-satisfyingly but appeared to think about something-probably editing the story.

"Well, I give the man what he deserved and go back to my car to clean up. The cut scarred over and never went away. I can kinda see out of this eye, but only kinda." He ended the story with such an air of pride and self-satisfaction, both Ford and Fidds smiled despite the horror of it all. They didn't see that much, that as in Stanley looking proud of himself...and more like never. Stanley was more self-deprecating than most people.

This went on for a while, they would ask some question as to why, who, what and when and he would either blow into full-on story mode or answer with as little as possible or not at all. By the time they ended the Q and A, it was dark and Stanley went to bed, feeling lighter than he had in years.

* * *

 **The original was so bad, I hope this rewrite is better, not gonna reread it tho, because I'm tired. Lol, hope you enjoyed.  
**


	8. Get togethers and sing alongs

**Here we go! Thank you all for the wonderful support! The song is "I don't feel it anymore" by William Fitzsimmons. I do suggest listening to it. This is not the full song, I didn't want to put it all in, because it's a little repetitive.  
**

* * *

Stanley thumbed the strings on his guitar with a contented sigh.

They were relaxing after a hard day out in the forest. Stan, Ford, and Fidds had been searching for the elusive unicorn glade. Needless to say, they were never returning there again. Although, Ford was excited to see what properties unicorn blood contained.

After their day of adventure, all three of them needed some time to wind down before bed. They had already eaten a hasty, yet delicious dinner of waffles because even Stanley couldn't help but eat junk when he had a yearning for it. Sometime after the meal, Ford suggested someone play some music. Someone since both Fidds and Stan was proficient with their respective instruments.

Stan grunted his agreement and now they were settled into the cushions of the living room couch, waiting patiently while he tuned and adjusted his guitar accordingly.

The song began, soft and soothing. It took a moment for Ford to recognize it. When he did, he settled down further into the cushions and sang to the tune in a soft voice, a small smile on his face.

 _Hold on, this will hurt than anything has before._

Fiddleford turned away from Stanley to look at Ford in surprise. Stanford was a _really_ good singer. Ford didn't notice, his eyes shut in content and concentration.

 _I've brought this on us more than anyone can ignore..._

His voice was still deep, like his brothers, but unlike Stan who could NOT sing, Ford was in tune with the song and you could tell he wasn't making a conscious effort either.

 _I've worked for so long, just to see you mess around. What you've done, what you've done..._

Stanley seemed to be in the same trance, swaying to the music he and his brother were creating in a stunning, perfect harmony.

 _I want back the years you took from me when I was young. When I was young. I was young._

 _I was young._

Fiddleford felt his eyes slip shut and he fought to keep them open. Watching them sing together was fascinating, but the music was also very peaceful, like a lullaby.

 _I don't feel it anymore, oh take it all away, oh take it all away._

Fidds subconscious was trying to alert him to something and he struggled to figure out what it was.

 _No map can direct how to ever make it home._

 _We're alone,_

 _We're alone,_

 _We're alone._

He became conscious of the lyrics and felt a deep pang of sadness, as well as the sting of tears in his eyes as he thought how from the heart and personal this all, felt. He considered leaving, it all just seemed so _intrusive._ Like he was getting a preview into their hearts and minds. One that he did not earn the right too. He wondered if they even remembered he was in the room.

 _Oh take it all away, I don't feel it anymore. Oh, Take it all away..._

Stan and Ford both ended the song with a remorseful sigh as if both regretting the song ever had to end. They shared a peace filled glance, one with understanding and a sweet sadness. No one spoke.

When the silence broke, it was Fiddleford who broke it.

"I didn't know ya could sing, Stanferd."

Fiddleford's voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it was filled with admiration and an acute disbelief. Ford turned away to hide his quickly reddening face while Stanley chuckled.

"That's because he doesn't think he can. I've been trying to tell him that for _years_ and he just wouldn't listen. So only I was ever blessed enough to hear it."

Ford growled, "I certainly can't sing and you cannot tell me otherwise. If I can sing, how did I end up related to you? Your voice is worse than a Gremloblins' roar."

Stanley and F winced. It was true, unfortunately. Stanley could **_NOT_** sing. He recovered from the quip by gesturing to his guitar.

"Because my musical talents fall elsewhere. Fidds, tell him we make a good duo." Stan teased. He wasn't being very serious. Like Ford, he tended to self-deprecate. He could spot talent in his brother, but that was his _brother_. Anything Stanley Pines did was mediocre at best.

Fiddleford however, was absolute, dead as a fish in a dry barrel, serious. "You two workin' ta'gether was the closest thing I've heard to an angel choir."

His tone and face could not be mistaken for joking by even the most socially inept sociopath. Now both of them were red. Stan shifted in his seat. "I think you might be exaggerating a bit their Fidds."

F smirked. "Nope. Nothin' I can do could compare ta that!" He chuckled as they both ducked their heads. "Now c'mon. Ya gonna give me an encore? 'Cause I'd sure enjoy one..."

Ford jumped to their rescue. Very deliberately changing the subject. "Why doesn't Stanley tell us how he came by the guitar anyway? I don't recall you being able to play before..." Ford turned to Stan, who had already recuperated from his embarrassment. He cocked a brow.

"Haven't I already told ya that story?" He asked, stroking the side of his beloved instrument subconsciously. Ford and F shook their heads and Ford huffed, crossing his arms.

"Last time I asked you, you just told me, and I quote, 'it's fun.'."

Stan huffed, his lips twitching into a brief smile, his eyes already far away. His fingers fiddled with the strings as he collected his story the front of his mind. When he was ready, he sat forward and grinned.

"Alright, It was about...five years ago? I was walking down the street when I saw this man. He looked a lot like I did, which is positively awful. I wasn't doing too well for myself, especially those first few years." Stan took a moment to recenter his story. He cleared his throat. "Right, so this man was playing the guitar, a collecting tin beside his leg as he sat on the stone cold sidewalk. It was winter, and he looked like he was freezing. Many people walked past him, but I know how hard using your fingers in the cold can be and this man was playing like a pro when his fingers must have felt like popsicles. So I sit next to him, offer him what I could. Which I believe was a twinkie(?). I think I bought it, but I can't remember." Stan thought again before continuing.

"So, I was in that town for longer than I was in most since the police were either really bad at their jobs, or just lazy. Which probably qualifies as 'bad' but I'm getting distracted. I was in the general area for a couple weeks and I make sitting by this guy a habit. Just helping a man out. I could always find him in the same spot. Despite this, his song was never the same.

He never talked, that man. I don't even know his name. But one day, he hands the guitar over to me. I don't have anything to do, so I just shrug and let him teach me how to play.

I struggled with it, the guitar is actually quite difficult to learn, especially when your mentor is a homeless, mute man on the street. Despite all that, I got better. I stayed a bit longer than I should have, just to see this man again and let him teach me his profession. I always brought {Brought, not bought.} him something to eat too, which I suppose is why he decided to teach me in the first place. Charity isn't something most people enjoy just _taking,_ ya know?"

Stan leaned back and ran a hand over his chin, his eyes grew sad and his smile fell. "One morning, the eve of when I planned to leave, I go back to this man-I never gave him a name and he never offered-and he's...he's dead. His eyes are closed and his hand is resting on his guitar. This baby-" Stan patted the precious instrument- " Was sitting beside him, where I usually sat." Stan huffed, his sigh laced with sadness. "He was old. It wasn't the worst way to go, really. I managed to get him away from the streets and let him rest properly. After...the funeral? I'm not sure it qualifies as a proper burial, but I tried. I took it with me. The guitar, that is. I guess it just felt...right. If the man wanted to keep it than he would have been clutching it. I think he left it beside him because he knew...he knew what was coming and wanted to do some good. I wouldn't usually make assumptions like that. I really think about leaving it at his grave but had you both been there, I'm sure you would have felt the same." Stan ruffled his own hair with his four-fingered hand,

"I guess I kinda wanted to remember him too. He gave me hope in humanity. Even if he never said a word to me."

Stan snapped out of his bittersweet reminiscing and coughed, "Well, that's the story. Are you two-"

Stanley looked up to see them both fighting and failing to hold back tears. Yet they were both smiling. Stan stared at them, a little more than just confused.

"Are you two okay?"

They both nodded in tandem. _Are ya sure we ain't triplets?_ Stan laughed. They didn't even have to speak to contradict themselves. Humans were strange creatures.

Neither seemed like they were gonna start speaking any time soon, so Stan began to play again, this time a lively, upbeat tune. Much like the one Fidds heard him play when they first met. Stanley grinned,

"This is the first song he taught me."

* * *

 **Yeah? More backstory you say? Well, here ya go. I really suggest listening to the song at the beginning. {psst! I wrote this while sitting in my definitely not walk in closest. It is a very small closet. My legs hurt. I'm not sure I can move...}**

 **Stan: Hey, Ford? Can ya really sing like that?**

 **Ford: You know I can't. We've both sung drunk often enough to affirm that.**

 **Stan: Yes, but that's when we're both drunk, how about now?**

 **Ford: No. I refuse.**

 **Stan *singing, absolutely horribly*: I was a lost boy from Neverland! Usually hangin' out with Peter Pan!**

 **Ford *fingers in his ears*: Since when do you listen to Ruth Berhe? And can you stop?**

 **Stan: I heard Mabel singing this song and not until you sing with me!**

 **Ford: Oh boy. *turns to you, the unfortunate soul reading this* I shall attempt to spare you my brother's antics. Please, feel free to review and tell us all what you thought. *Runs out of the room. Stan follows.***


	9. Terrors in the night

**There is this one guest, not sure if it's the same person, but I'm going to assume it is, and I wanted to thank them for their well thought out and kind reviews, it really motivates me to actually try when I write instead of letting it dissolve into random junk my head provides, so thank you.**

 **This will get angsty or Stangsty, I guess, because Stan still hasn't told them about his nightmares, and they're getting progressively worse. So Tw: For really messed up night terrors. Etc. I didn't really like the sixth chapter...so I'm hoping that I can make my other ones better to atone for it. Hence this:**

* * *

Stanley had gone through a lot in his short life. He had traveled around the world, met people and seen monuments. Sometimes, he loved it. The freedom. He loved those days, the days he could pretend. Pretend he wasn't wanted in ninety percent of the United States, that he wasn't a hardened criminal living off others hard work to survive, doing odd jobs for crooks and druggies so he could eat the next day. The days he could pretend he was just a traveling guitarist, one that wasn't trying to live off the coins they threw in his hat. Those were the good days.

Then came the nights. The nights where he was running out of cash and had to sneak something under his shirt at a gas station to survive, because dangit, Stanley didn't beg. He refused to. He didn't _need_ to. {He didn't want that, to be a burden, to be a leech _not again._ } The nights where he was running, running, _sprinting_ because if he didn't he would die. He would fall.

The nights where he was fighting. Fighting for another's life or his own, only one thing mattered was that they _survived._ So he fought and-

Sometimes, it could be too much. His mind just couldn't take it.

Stan knew he had nightmares. He knew they were an issue, but he didn't know they could get this bad. Could become so life-consuming that it showed, it showed right through the act he put up, through the walls he tried so hard to build and maintain, even to himself. They had started after being thrown out. Less of a nightmare and more of a repeated memory, one that still haunted him.

His own logic in the strange set of events that were unfolding now went as so;

He had very little sleep, out there on the streets, was too alert to get proper rest, so the nightmares were very, very rare, and often easy to overcome, to wave away.

After he moved in with his brothers, he got more rest, his mind still alert, yet aware that he was safe. _Safe enough_. So he slept. He slept well, those first few nights.

Then the nightmares started.

At first, they were much like the ones he had out on the streets, brief and easily explained away. Forgotten. Stan barely noticed when they started to worsen, to become more detailed. They were usually just memories, which were indeed nightmare-ish, but manageable. He had already been through them once before anyway.

But they didn't stop. It didn't matter what he told himself, that they weren't real, they were just his mind trying to understand what it had been through, he was just trying to cope with the fact that he was _safe._

 _Was he?_

They continued to torment him. To morph his memories into terrors he wasn't sure how his mind was capable of conjuring. He began waking up in cold sweats, glaring at a threat that wasn't there, and the fear eating him alive. He started to pray for Ford and Fidds not to notice, to see that he wasn't sleeping, not eating or even smiling as often. He prayed that he wasn't screaming, so they couldn't hear the gut-wrenching fear he felt, to hear the desperation as he called for help to someone that wasn't there. He begged the universe to at least give him that. He didn't want to hurt them. That wasn't why he was there! He was supposed to protect them...

He started coping, in his own way, started building the walls again, so his mind had to change tactics. Switch it up on him.

It wasn't him being hurt anymore.

It was _them._

He watched on, helpless as his only newly reunited twin was suffocated to death by each and every one of his enemies. He fought and ran, but never came any closer when he saw Fiddleford, his only other friend being brutally murdered before his eyes.

And he was _useless._ He couldn't protect them. He had failed.

That's when he couldn't handle it. That's what broke him. Stan woke up, a scream in his throat, legs and arms thrashing out in despair. He could feel his heart in his chest, pounding, nearly punching through his ribs. The rush of adrenaline making everything sound like white noise and the taste of fear on his tongue. He bolted upward, eyes darting every which way as he pushed through the dark hallway to the only other bedrooms in the house.

He found Ford's door first, and without warning burst into the room. The door crashing against the wall was enough to wake up Ford, who jolted upward. Stanley couldn't hear him through his relief. Yet the relief was soon overcome with panic again and Stan left to find Fiddleford. He could still feel his heart pounding and ignored it when he thought he felt it stop for a moment.

Fiddleford was _gone._

Stanley nearly died right then and there, although he didn't know, or care. He ran out of the room, a scream building in his throat as he ran to the living room because the nerd had to be somewhere, right? _RIgHT?_

Racing to the living room, he found Fiddleford sitting on the couch, reading a book with a cup of coffee, which he dropped in surprise.

Stan didn't hear him either when he sunk to the floor. He fell to the ground, his mind still trying to deny the facts, yet having a hard time denying what was in front of him. Ford had followed him, with concerned questions Stan didn't hear.

Curling up on himself, he became slightly more conscious of a very important fact.

He couldn't _breathe._

He wasn't sure if he was shaking or the ground was trembling. His hearing suddenly worked again, yet it was distorted, mushing the sounds between rifts of static.

"Sta...what's goin...Stan!"

Stan felt something press against his shoulder and he flinched away before growling. The pressure was gone, but he still couldn't breathe. His throat felt raw as he tried to listen to what was around him, to focus on anything other than... _it._

"Stanley. It's going to be alright, I promise. You need to breathe. Stanley? Can you hear me? C'mon Ley, nod if you can hear me."

Stan heard Ford's voice above all the white noise and let it anchor him. He did his best interpretation of a nod and heard a...relieved(?) sigh beside him.

"Ley? I need you to breathe, alright? I need you to listen to my voice. Can I take your hand?"

Probably not the best choice of words. Stan growled again, deep and terrifying but obviously fear based. He felt Ford back off and correct himself hurriedly,

"No!," Stan flinched and Ford lowered his voice, "Sorry, no, I'm not going to take your hand off, but I need you to calm down, your going to give yourself a heart-attack at this rate. I need you to breathe with me, alright? One...two...three...C'mon Stan you can do it."

His words bounced around in Stan's skull, taking him back _years._ The same words had pushed him forward, kept him going when he was younger. He let them do so now and when Stan felt his hand being picked up and pressed against something warm he didn't fight it. He felt the up and down motions and tried to match his unstable breathing to it.

Reality slowly, but surely came back into focus. Stan felt his breathing ease and his heart stop pumping with adrenaline. Now that the fear was gone, his body seemed to be shutting down. He slid further down the wall and felt something soft catch him. His eyes slip shut and he let Sixer's soothing words wrap around his aching mind and soul as he passed out into darkness.

* * *

 **Lol, ending it here just to torture you. No other reason. MWHAHAHA! { This is what happens when I try to write something worth reading, I'm sorry }**

 **Stan: Uh, am I gonna be alright? Your not gonna kill me or somethin'?**

 **Ford: Don't worry, I won't let her.**

 **Fiddleford: I'm not sure how you would stop her, but I certainly hope you will. I don't wanna see any of ya die.**

 **Me: MWHAHAHAH!**

 **I have a question. How does this make you all feel? When I write this stuff, I'm usually laughing, and I wrote this chapter with a straight face, not necessarily feeling anything? So how did this make you feel? Are you screaming? Did it make you laugh, because it sucked? Did it not affect you at all? I really want to know. Thanks for reading! (Don't worry, I'll update soon. Probably. Idk I'm really impulsive, so you never know.)**


	10. You have my back, and I have yours

**HERE YOU GO, FLESHSACKS:**

* * *

Ford had been sleeping peacefully when he was woken up by a loud crash. The sound rang in his skull as his body filled with fear. He watched Stanley, eyes much too bright and hectic, save him one glance before running out of the room.

"Stanley! What's going on? Where are you going?"

Either Stan couldn't hear him, or wasn't listening, because he didn't answer, just kept on running. Ford followed him, a little breathless all the way to F's room, only to watch Stan change course and barge into the living room, where Fidds was enjoying a late-night coffee for some reason.

Stan slumped over and Ford became aware of his uneven, harsh breathing. As if he was struggling to get the air into his lungs. _He's having a panic attack!_ Ford thought. His mind ran through everything he knew about panic attacks, which wasn't much since neither of them really suffered from them, as he knelt by his brother.

It felt wrong, seeing such a large, gruff, tough man become so overcome with fear.

It was even worse seeing _Stan_ as that man. Ford shuddered to think of what could have caused such a violent reaction from his battle-weary brother.

"Stan? Stan, can you hear me?" Ford reached out to touch his shoulder but pulled back when Stan winced, eyes wide, and _growled._ Not his usual grunting growl that he probably wasn't even aware sounded like a growl, a full-on, animalistic _snarl_ that made Ford's hair stand on end. Ford took an uneven breath, trying to calm the fear coursing through him. His breath evened out and Ford tried to be calm and collected, his face grim and serious as he addressed Stan again.

"Stanley. It's going to be alright. (He hoped), I promise. You need to breathe. Stanley? Can you hear me?" Ford's composure slipped for a moment, "C'mon Ley, nod if you can hear me." Ford begged, feeling useless as his brother continued to choke, mouth wide as he attempted to pull more air into his lungs. Ford's face fell in relief when Stan nodded weakly. _Oh thank goodness, I have no idea what I'm doing._

Ford remembered something about putting the 'victims' hand on someone else's chest to demonstrate an even breathing pattern, to help them relax. Ford spoke softly, trying to hide his own panic.

"Ley? I need you to breathe, alright? I need you to listen to my voice." Ford swallowed his fear, afraid that Stan would lash out if he tried to touch him again, "Can I take your hand?"

His fear wasn't unfounded, Stan growled, but it was different, a little more frightened and desperate than before. Stan gripped his own hand tightly, Ford's lips popped open in shock when he realized Stan thought he was going to _dismember_ is hand. {What could have-he's been through so much-}

"No!" Stan flinched back and Ford fought to lower his voice, "Sorry, no. I'm not going to take your hand off," Ford felt sick just thinking about it, that his brother needed to be reassured about that. "But I need you to calm down, your going to have a heart-attack at this rate." At least, Ford thought so. He was a theoretical physicist who dealt with anomalies, not an MD. "I need you to take a deep breath with me, alright?" Ford breathed in deep, making it as loud as he could so Stan could harmonize with it. "One" Ford took another breath, "Two" He released it. "Three." He breathed in again and watched Stan struggle to do the same. "C'mon Stan," Ford whispered, "you can do it."

Ford was hesitant but slowly slid his hand over Stan's with a relieved, tense smile when Stan didn't react. He placed it on his chest, continuing to breathe in deeply.

Stan slowly but surely calmed down and Ford watched as his eyes slid shut and his body shut down, sliding down the wall he was leaning against. He caught Stan, kinda and held his head in his lap, stroking Stan's hair soothingly.

Now that it was all over, the fear and adrenaline left him, leaving Ford absolutely exhausted. Ford let his close and fell asleep again, emotionally drained.

...

Fiddleford jumped in surprise but kept his distance when Stan ran into the room. Ford seemed to have everything in control. He decided late night coffee was a bad idea and left them on the floor, under no delusion that he could move them even if he tried. Those two were like bricks, especially Stan. Fidds, despite being confused, smiled. Being absolutely bamboozled by their antics was so worth it to see them look so happy, even in sleep. He returned to the living room with a blanket and threw it over them before heading to his own bed. He could get some answers in the morning.

* * *

 **I wrote this listening to gravity fall song, like 'Stan Pines-Promiseland.'**

 **It was fun.**

 **Sorry if this sucked. I shall write proper fluff later. I tried to make it better...**


	11. It's a chapter just not the one you want

**ATTENTION! Do I have it? Ok, so remember when I said that I made this au months ago? Well, I found in one of my notebooks, the original draft of the first chapter! I'd forgotten I'd written it. I like it, so that's what this chapter is. Don't worry, the real update will be coming soon.  
**

* * *

*For the people who don't read the bold. This is my original draft of the first chapter, (I made it _months_ ago.) I found it and liked it, so that's what this is.*

In the very beginning...

"Hey, Fiddleford?"

Stanford was standing in the kitchen, staring at an empty coffee pot. "I think we need to go shopping."

Fidds grumbled at his seat, where he had been reading notes from yesterday's investigation, "As in I need to go shopping. No! It's fine. If you went shopping there is no telling what you'd come home with." Fidds added when Ford looked guilty.

Fiddleford, after snatching the keys to the truck, hopped in and drove down to the small town's only store, Dusk two Dawn. Fidds parked and immediately started tapping his foot to the music.

Wait. Music?

Outside the doors of the shop, a man sat playing joyfully on a guitar. The tune was fast and upbeat, but the lyrics made no sense. His voice was deep and gravely. When Fidds got closer to the small crowd surrounding the man, managed to get a good look and gasped.

This man was a sickly sight! He wore a large eyepatch, with the ends of a scar peeking out the edges. He had several smaller scars on his face, seemingly random. He was ruffed up, needed a shower and to the eye, looked young, yet wisened by things you couldn't unsee. Despite this, he wore a large grin and his hands played furiously. Fidds did a double take at that. His hands...

He had nine fingers, Fidds noted. His left pinkie very obviously removed. _Probably some sort of accident,_ Fidds thought. He marveled at the sight, pleasantly confused as to how a man so beaten down could smile so joyfully.

By the end of the song, the crowd dissipated. When they moved, Fidds got a better look at the man and watched as he tipped over something by his feet with his boot.

Fidds realized it was a collecting tin. The guitarist tipped it over. Not a single coin fell out. Fiddleford saw the man's face fall for the first time since he'd arrived and it shook him. It didn't look natural and made him seem all the more intimidating.

Compassion aroused, Fidds wondered what he could do. He could probably spare some cash, although he wasn't rich by any means. He could always buy him something, he was here to shop after all. Walking closer, he cleared his throat to get the man's attention.

This was a mistake, the man whipped around, startled. Fidds could have sworn he saw the man reach out to something that wasn't there. He mentally shuddered at what that could've meant.

Fidds felt guilt flood him for scaring him, "Oh I apologize! I didn't mean ta frighten ya. I just wanted to tell ya I enjoyed your show." Fidds added, even though that wasn't what he had been thinking about at all, even though the man did have talent. " I was wonderin', actually if I could offer ya lunch. I'm headin' ta the diner after shopping, and I feel I owe it to ya for ya wonderful production." Fidds smiled, putting it on a little thick. He didn't think the man would take pity charity.

He was right.

* * *

 **Lol, and that is where the original beginning of this story ends. I hope you liked this adventure into younger me's writing. Idk, I just wanted to give you all something. I'm feeling a bit burnt out. Forgive me...**

 **Stan: No.**

 **Ford: Aw, that isn't nice. Be nice Stanley.**

 **Stan: *Glares at Ford* What did you just say? BE NICE? Tell that to yourself! *Stomps out***

 **Ford: Wonder what's up with him? *turns to you and your beautiful face* Well, I shall take my leave now. I think I shall travel into the future to see how the real next chapter wraps up this whole 'nightmare' business. Good day, and don't forget to review. *Follows Stan***

 **Yeesh, I am sorry. I am very weird. DON'T DIE! *throws cake at you***


	12. Bittersweet smiles

**...**

Stanley woke up. _Well isn't this a surprise?_ Stan thought, _As usual._

He blinked slowly, a fog of exhaustion still hanging over him. As his mind woke up, he realized he wasn't in his bedroom. His eyes flitted around the room, taking in everything at once. The blanket, the warmth beneath his head (Is that a foot?) the bright light radiating from the kitchen. He moved his hand to rub it over his eyes, which still felt heavy with sleep. He yawned and shifted slightly, not ready to move. He was comfortable and didn't feel like ruining it just then.

He released his breath slowly in a relaxed sigh as he turned his head to confirm whether what he saw really was a foot. It was. His brother's to be exact. Is wasn't hard to identify, what with the little spaceships all over them. Stan chuckled under his breath. Nerd.

Stan looked up when he heard an echoing laughter from above him. Ford was awake, he tugged his fingers through Stan's hair with a silly smirk, silently taunting him. _Aw, is Stanley a sleepy baby?_ Stan growled in false annoyance and sat up, a bit embarrassed for seeming soft. Ford just chuckled again and leaned against his side. They stayed like that for a while. Stan recalled why he was in the living room in the first place and mentally face-palmed. Stupid dreams.

Ford heard his agitated sigh and quietly whispered his inquiry.

"Stanley, are you alright?" He asked softly. They were back-to-back, facing in opposite directions. So he couldn't read Stan's expression.

Stan sighed again, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket Fidds must have thrown on them. Ford wasn't so attentive to detail.

His voice, usually so captivating and attention-grabbing, seemed small now. He was very quiet, but Ford could hear him just fine. "I'm sorry, Ford. That wasn't supposed to happen..."

Ford heard the all the regret, self-deprecation and even fear Stan was harboring in that one sentence before Stan could recompose himself. Ford felt his own face fall. He moved his right hand behind him, reaching out, he found Stanley's hand and held it, fitting his own six fingers between Stanley's four.

"It's going to be okay, Ley. I promise." He murmured. He didn't press for answers, he knew Stan wouldn't tell him anything before he was ready to. He felt Stanley sigh again.

They were silent for another moment. Ford became aware of movement and noise from the kitchen but ignored it just then. Breakfast could wait. Out of nowhere, Stanley spoke again.

"I saw you die, Sixer. You-you were _dead_ and I couldn't-I wasn't- _I couldn't save you."_ Stan lamented, holding his hand that much harder as if to reassure himself Ford was alive.

Ford wanted to shudder at the fear and hatred laced in his brother's words but internalized it for Stan's sake. He repeated his soothing words, "I'm here, I'm okay."

Stanford had a lot of questions. He always did. But Stanley was so very stubborn when it came to his feelings and thoughts, his past. Ford was surprised that he even let Ford comfort him thus far. Which shook him, because that meant whatever those nightmares presented to him must have shaken Stan, and up until now, Ford didn't think that was possible.

Stanley hummed/growled and swayed them both. They figured they should get up by that point, but that wasn't likely without some outside motivation.

Which came in the skinny small form of Fiddleford. He popped his head out of the kitchen doorway with a smile that made Stan chuckle internally. "Howdy! I made breakfast. Don't get mad at me if it don't look edible, that's what ya'll get for sleepin' in." He laughed softly to show them he was teasing and went back to the kitchen with a smile.

Ford let his amusement show, unlike Stan, who was as rock-faced (lol. Is it a face? Or a rock? I think. It's about to punch us. Run.) as ever. Ford stood up, using the hand that was gripping Stanley's to try and pull him up. Stan didn't move and snickered when Ford tried even harder to move him. Ford grunted,

"Hey! It's not my fault you're a rock." Ford teased. Stan smirked,

"Not my fault you're a skinny nerd, either." He got up and pulled Ford into the kitchen, his eyes lit up (Guarding, always hiding-) "Pancakes!"

They sat at the table and Fiddleford turned to see them both digging in like two children on a Saturday morning.

Adorable. Fidds smirked. He felt more and more like a stay-at-home dad the longer he lived with these two. Never knowing what his 'kids' were up to, but trying his best anyway.

Ford raised a brow when he noticed F's smirk. "What's so funny?"

F leaned back in his chair and pointed his fork at the pair of them. "You two. Are. ADORABLE."

Ford put his face in his hands to hide his blush and Stan almost choked on his food before bursting out laughing. "That's a new one!"

Fiddleford grinned. No regrets.

* * *

 **I listened to more of William Fitzsimmons writing this. I had to add the last part, I just couldn't NOT do it, ya know?**

 **Stan: I'm gonna leave and go co-I mean, sell a few stories to some wall- I mean folks. I need to get this outta my head.**

 **Ford: You are so obvious. If you're going to go steal people's hard earned money...bring me with you and I can give you some pointers.**

 **Stan: What? You give me what?**

 **Ford: I wasn't a goody-to-shoes dimension hopping Stanley. Compared to me, you're just a novice. My rap-sheet is twice as long. I mean, did you know in some dimensions it's illegal to _breathe_ in some places? **

**Stan *bursts out laughing*: Poindexter, you're _on_.**


	13. Concerned

**Hi! Have a chapter: (If I contradict myself I am sorry, please tell me and I will fix it.)**

* * *

He was locking up again.

Ford sighed in frustration. Nothing he did was working. Stanley was still as immovable as a titanium wall. Guarding and hiding everything behind those knowing eyes of his. Ford hoped after everything they'd gone through to get him to talk to them and the small moment of vulnerability Stan had allowed himself that he would be more open, but no dice. Ford also took notice of how irritated Stan would be if Ford pressed him for too long. He realized this and made sure to ease off when he thought Stan was about to snap.

It was funny, no, more strange than funny. Ford watched him in these moments and found what he saw intriguing. It wasn't that Stan ever yelled at him to back off when he was starting to reach his peak with Ford's questions, but rather that he went very still. Stan would usually stand up and walk out of the room, his entire body screaming _tension!_

Usually, in these moments, Stan wouldn't say anything, but when he did it wasn't to yell or even snap angrily. He would whisper instead, and Ford found that to be all the more terrifying. He had to wonder if anyone who met Stan on the streets felt the same way.

It was just _frustrating_ because Stanley _needed_ help and refused it every time someone offered! Ford fell back in his seat with a huff. He was supposed to be drawing their most recent discovery- Something Ford deemed a 'Leobear'. It was half Bear and half Leopard -but he just couldn't focus on it. His brother's issues were much more nagging than drawing the oddly adorable creature. {Okay, maybe it tried to eat them, but that didn't stop it from being cute!}

Okay, so maybe bugging him about it wouldn't work. It wasn't like Ford was being super obvious about it though. He would just pop in with a seemingly random inquiry that had in fact been bothering him the entire day. It wasn't like Ford was poking his arm and telling him to go to a therapist. He just wanted to make sure Stan was alright. Night terrors were a big deal, and if Stan wasn't careful he could end up killing himself, whether from lack of sleep (it was pretty obvious Stan wasn't sleeping) or from cardiac arrest. The heart could only take so much and at the rate, Stan was going...well. Ford could only say this. Stan looked worse than he did during final exams in college.

Ford stood abruptly and started pacing. Dwelling on it wouldn't solve anything. He needed a solution.

And he was going to get himself one.

* * *

 **I don't know either...? Well, I hope you enjoyed this pure filler anyway. I had an entirely different idea before, with a chapter about 2,000 words long, but I discarded it when this came to me. I kinda like this more...so. That is what you get. If you know where the Leobear came from kudos to you! Hint: I didn't get it from the internet. So don't search it. I just did and I got a picture telling me about the 'history of the potato.'**

 **Yeah...**

 **Okay, bye bye now!**

 **Stan: What?! What about us?**

 **Ford: Yes, this is the only time we get to speak, don't keep it from us.**

 **Me: Oh, sorry, didn't know you guys actually cared.**

 **Stan: Of course we do! Especially me, since this is sometimes the only place I get featured!**

 **Me and Ford: What are you talking about?! Most of the stories she-I've written you are the main character!**

 **Stan *eyes narrowing*: What are ya saying...?**

 **Ford: You are a narcissist.**

 ***Shrug* I'm so weird. GOOD DAY, YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE! *runs off into a swamp* wait, where am I? (I feel like I've seen this chapter before...hmm.)**


	14. Only the best of the best survive

**Okay, I've been writing a lot of angst...because I run off feelings...and I'm feelin' angsty...so. Yeah.  
**

* * *

Stanley growled as he jabbed at the large punching bag he'd hung in his bedroom. He didn't have his gloves on and his fists were covered in bright red scratches. He'd been practicing a lot more recently, not because he really _wanted_ too, but because he was sure something was after them.

And he wanted to be ready for it.

He wasn't sure what it was, exactly. He had been seeing things out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, movement. When he went out to town, he _knew_ something was following him. Yet, he couldn't catch anyone, or _anything_ whenever he turned to look. It had him on guard, all the time. He couldn't sleep, he had been keeping a night watch, and honestly, the nightmares did bother him a bit. He knew that Ford and Fidds noticed, but he didn't care. Ford kept asking him about the nightmares, even though those were the last of Stan's concerns. He was more worried about one of his 'associates' coming after them and making his nightmares reality.

Stan huffed as he struck the black bag over and over again. Closing his eyes, he stepped back, twisted and swung his left leg into the side of the bag. It swayed on the chain, nearly hitting the wall.

"Wow."

Stan whipped around. His hair was stuck to his face with sweat and his eyes were wide and bright with energy. He growled at the intruder, body still tense from his exercise, he was ready for a fight. He was in survivor mode. He had been for a while now. He'd been controlling himself, but it was hard work, not to punch first and ask questions later. Whatever it was that was bothering him, he hated it with his entire being. He didn't feel safe hanging around his Ford and Fidds when he was in this mindset.

Especially not right now.

"Out," Stan said quietly.

"I was just going to tell you dinner is rea-"

"I said, out. Now." Stan repeated. His eyes {well technically eye} closed again. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to lash out a threat that wasn't there, and holding back was killing him. He heard Ford swallow and shut the door.

"Alright..." The door shut and Stan released his breath in a slow sigh before turning back to the bag. He let his hands swing at it over and over again letting, every hit, every cut, and bruise ground him. Bring him closer to a positive state of mind.

It wasn't working. Something was wrong, and until he figured out what it was, he wasn't going to be able to relax. Stan punched harder. He imagined the bag as whatever it was that was following them- him.

He figured he should to stop when the bag nearly broke through the wall. He was glad the wood was sturdy.

Stan Pines would survive. It was his motto. His curse. And if Stan survived, this thing wouldn't.

 _The enemy doesn't stand a chance when the victim decides to_ survive.

Now if only he could survive for all of them.

* * *

 **Are you guys okay? I don't know what I was thinking writing this...I don't know what's bothering him or if it not just all in his mind, but uh...yeah. I just hope he doesn't punch Fidds or Ford, because I'm not sure their faces could endure that.**

 **Stan: You're right. They wouldn't.**

 **Ford: I went through the same boxing classes you did Stanley. And might I say, I was the one who survived thirty years with creatures all out to kill me.**

 **Fidds: ... I would probably die. I can fight, but only 'cause I'm fast. If they get a good hit in, I would probably be done.**

 **Stan: That is...sad. We need to teach Fiddlesticks to take a hit, bro.**

 **Fords *laughs*: Um, no. Not unless we want to break him. Maybe the kids can teach him?**

 **Fidds: Well now were jus' gettin' insultin' here.**


	15. Why didn't you just say that!

**I'm back from a funeral. He wasn't a very close friend, but I'm sorry to see him go. He was a good man.**

 **edit: This chapter bounces around a _lot,_ sorry. Also, fake funeral warning. Real tears ahead. **

* * *

Ford wasn't a crier. Not really. Some people thought he was the weepy one because Stanley _never_ cried, but Ford didn't think that was fair. So he cries _sometimes_ , that doesn't make him a _crier_. It just meant he needed to release some pent-up emotion that Stanley released by punching things. Not everyone could be a short-fused boxer.

When Ford did cry, which was not often, but if he did, Stanley was there. Was there to make him smile or laugh, to make him take a break. Ford thought about this as he wept, tears falling in waves down his face. He wished Stan was there, to make him stop. To make the _pain_ stop. Because he was in pain. Torturous, soul-crushing agony.

Well, technically Stan was there. He just wasn't physically capable of talking. Or moving. Or doing anything. He wasn't _seeing, breathing, he wasn't SMILING._ Everything that Stan was...was gone. Forever.

Ford's tears were endless and if he was hiccuping and sobbing like a child, no one would blame him.

Okay, that's a lie too. He blamed himself. He didn't deserve to mourn, because he was the issue the entire time. Because it was his fault, wasn't it? He let Stan leave that night. He blatantly accused him of sabotage. He never bothered looking for him after he left, and now he couldn't. He'd lost his chance.

That wasn't the only thing that hurt. It hurt because he couldn't _feel_ it. He always thought, if one of them died, that he would feel it. That it would be like half of his heart was gone. He'd felt a shadow of that pain the night Stan was kicked out. Instead, he felt the same, other than drowning in regret and guilt and that bothered him.

It just didn't _feel_ right.

He had been in denial, the first few days before the funeral, but now he couldn't deny anything. That wouldn't be right. Even if he didn't deserve to mourn, Stanley deserved it. He deserved to be recognized as Ford's brother one last time. It just, it killed him, knowing that he would never hear his twin's laugh, see his smile again. He sometimes thought about his childhood and liked to entertain the notion of getting to see Stan again, of being like they were when they were kids, but he couldn't do that now.

Ford started asking himself questions he never bothered to think about before. What had Stanley been doing? How did he support himself? Did he have any friends? Did he have a roof over his head? A warm place to sleep?

These questions circled in his mind and kept him up at night. He couldn't answer any of them.

By the time the actual burial came around, Ford didn't have any more tears to give. He was still in agony, but other than the near permanent frown on his face, it didn't show. Ford sat during the talks, although he himself didn't give a speech. He didn't think he would be capable of that. He wasn't the public speaker anyway, that was Stan's job...

There were only two speakers. At least he could answer one of his questions now.

Stan was friendless.

Almost no one showed up to the funeral. Ford had been hoping _someone_ from out of town, someone Ford didn't recognize would show up, maybe talk about how much they missed Ford's brother. Maybe Ford would get to answer some his of his inquiries, with positive replies.

No one came. Ma gave a speech, and so did, surprisingly, Carla McCorkle, who drove up from her house in Arkansas. She tried to talk to Ford after it was over, but Ford refused to see her. To see anyone. He left almost immediately and secluded himself. He did what Stanford Pines always did when something was bothering him.

He worked. He threw himself into his studies and didn't stop. He didn't stop until that fateful day when Fiddleford convinced him to go to the diner to meet a homeless man.

Ford laughed into his hands nowadays, rather than cried. Now he smiled and took breaks and Fiddleford could see the immense difference in his previously dreary, workaholic friend. Ford still worked way too much, but now he seemed to actually enjoy it. To enjoy life. It was like Fiddleford had been living with a shadow of who Ford had been. Now he was bright and excitable, he was _passionate_. In an introverted, Ford way of course.

Now, instead of burying his past, he worried about the present. Ford didn't cry anymore, he wasn't pushed onward by anger or guilt. He was more concerned than anything. Stan had been acting strange, and when Ford opened the door to see Stanley looking more animalistic than the playful weirdo they all knew, he had been seriously freaked out. It made him think back on when he went to Stan's fake funeral. He thought about the questions he asked himself.

 _What had Stanley been doing all those years?_

Now, he knew most of the answer to that. There were things Stan left out, or Ford forgot to ask. Stan still wouldn't talk about his nightmares, but Ford knew that Stan had been friendless, homeless, cold, tired, hungry, and fighting. Fighting to survive. Ford could only figure that was what Stan was doing now, but why?

What was Stanley trying to survive this time?

* * *

 **So...more filler, anyone? Sorry, I just needed to filter through some funeral blues. Okay, this chapter jumps around a lot. Summary: Ford wonders why Stan is in survival mode. The funeral thing...yeah. I just wanted to make you all cry with me. I went to a funeral today. Okay, maybe I didn't cry, {this is my way of crying...} but other people did. I'm okay though. I have a firm belief that he is in heaven, teaching people and working with the lord. Right along with my cat, Pepper. I did cry when Pepper died. She was way too young. {PEPPER COME BACK TO ME! *Sob*}**

 **Fidds: Everyone dies at some point...**

 **Ford and Stan *Stares***

 **Fidds *Backs away*: What?**

 ***Sorry, this was weird. Ignore my ramble of sadness. As in like...this entire chapter. Oops. I had to get through so much crap to get to that very last line, like are you serious brain!? Why didn't you just go straight to that?!**


	16. Were actually getting somewhere- nice!

**HI THERE! I know, I've been gone from this story awhile, but I am back! Enjoy!  
**

* * *

 _The door creaked open, making the small man entering the room flinch. A man cast in shadows was sitting behind a desk, back turned from the small man. The small man, short and weedy, wearing a suit with a handkerchief in his pocket, walked forward. He pulled out the handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat forming on his forehead nervously before returning it to its pocket._

 _"My my my, what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mayor Jackson?" The man behind the desk turned and the Mayor stared determinedly at the ground._

 _The man was large, beefy even. His mouth was set in a cruel smile, showing his teeth that shone menacingly in the light. The white button up shirt was undone at the top, showing off the large scar that started from his neck and ran down his chest. It was large enough that the majority of his skin looked alien. Like hundreds of popping veins. His jet black hair was slicked back and his fingers never strayed from the desk's tabletop, which held a multitude of sharp weapons, some the mayor couldn't identify._

 _The mayor shivered and stepped back at the cold black eyes met his own blue ones. He gulped. "I-I have some information I-I think you would be interested in..." Jackson stuttered, biting his lip as his eyes darted from side to side._

 _Rico, the man behind the desk, was a drug lord. He was immensely powerful and influential, enough so that nobody dared touched him. Most high-end politicians stayed away as a general rule._

 _Unless they needed something._

 _Rico gave the man before him a scrutinizing glare, his beady black eyes making the mayor shiver once more. They held none of the light or life one saw in most people. Rico gestured to the chair before him after a moment._

 _"And in return for this information?" He asked the mayor quietly. The mayor gave the chair a frightened glance, but sat quickly, not eager to upset the man before him. The mayor shook his head._

 _"Nothing! Nope, just...I heard there was a reward? Fifty-Fifty thousand?" Rico raised a brow and the mayor swallowed again, trying to collect himself. "What I mean is, there had been a reward but under circumstances..."_

 _Rico's brow furrowed. The last time he had put a price on anyone's head for that much, it had been when he had gotten his scar. His eyes glinted with a fiery anger just thinking of the incident. The scar- caused by a third-degree burn- had been given to him by an old...'friend.'_

 _Rico's patience was being used up quickly and he growled, "And what information that you have would be worth that much?" He snapped. The mayor shrunk back into the seat of the chair and whimpered._

 _"Ahh, um, yes! I have word on a cer-certain man. Sta-Stanley P-Pines?" The mayor whispered._

 _Rico blinked. He had a brief moment of shock at hearing his old enemies' name before the anger returned tenfold. His fists clenched and he snarled, snapping at the mayor through his teeth, eyes wide with fury. He stood up and grabbed the cowering man by the collar, bringing him eye level._

 _"Stanley Pines is ALIVE?!" He spat. The mayor had never been so terrified. Rico threw him back and the mayor knocked into the chair, falling backward and rolling onto the floor. Rico began pacing, arms still tensed at his sides as he muttered._

 _"He's alive?! A fake death! Of course, he was always good at deception..." Rico stopped himself and took a deep breathe, putting on a facade of calm that was arguably more fear-inducing than the screaming. He stood above the mayor with a smile, but the cold gleam in his eyes stopped it from being friendly._

 _"What else do you know about Stanley Pines?"_

 _..._

Stan shuddered as he woke up. He had fallen asleep during his night watch and was now staring out the darkened windows, eyes wide. He still didn't know what was going on, but the feeling of danger seemed to have intensified tenfold. His muscles trembled with anticipation as if his body knew that a fight was imminent. His eyes narrowed, his heart beat loudly in his ears as he stood up.

He wasn't getting any more sleep tonight.

* * *

 **Sorry if this isn't consistent. I tried. I hope ya'll enjoyed this! Have some of my humor to lighten the mood:**

 **Stan *Running toward Ford holding a giant cookie*: FORD! RUN!**

 **Ford *Staring confusedly like a shocked owl*: What?**

 ***Time baby comes around the corner, screaming*: GIVE ME BACK MY COOKIE!**

 **Ford *running beside Stan*: WHY DID YOU TAKE HIS COOKIE!?**

 **Stan: IT"S MAGICALLY DELICIOUS!**

 **Ford: WHY STAN?! WHY?!**


	17. Fidds is confused again! Yay!

**Hehe, the plot is moving! Kinda. ~ Tw's for murky soup.**

* * *

Ford stared at the table, already set for dinner.

That had been his job, he recalled. He had come up from the basement for that exact purpose. Yet, here he was, staring at the table already set with cloth and dishes. He sighed.

Stanley.

It had gotten worse lately. Stan wouldn't stop moving. He was either cleaning, cooking, or swinging furiously at the punching bag he had installed a while ago. Ford could even see the cracks in the wood where the bag had swung into the wall.

It was scaring him. The rigid silences, the way Stan would stare determinedly out the closest window at a sudden noise. The bags under his eyes had gotten even worse as of late, and he still refused to speak about it.

He was still pleasant, at times. Ford could see how hard Stan was trying. He would play for them occasionally, strumming dutifully on his guitar, but it lacked the smile, the passion Ford really enjoyed about it all. He had discussed it with Fiddleford, who noticed the difference in Stanley too. They couldn't seem to come up with an answer other than the night-terrors, which Ford was sure were still bothering him.

They decided not to mention it, worried it might close off Stanley completely.

Ford took a deep breath and released it slowly in another sigh before going to find his brothers. {At this point they were all family.} Dinner was boiling on the stove, a soup of some sort. It was murky brown, but the scent of all the different spices it gave off made it seem enticing enough. Ford stepped swiftly into the living room, letting his eyes gaze over the room once before moving on. No one in there.

He checked every room but the basement. Nothing. He was starting to get worried, where could they be? Ford's brow furrowed in concern and he ran quickly to the front door. They might be in the basement, but it was unlikely. More believable was that they were outside. Ford ran and his glasses nearly fell off in the process. He pushed them back on his nose and opened the front door, stepping back when the door swung open silently.

Stan was right outside the door, standing in front of it. Almost like a bouncer at a bar, no. Exactly like a bouncer. He was staring off at the edge of the forest, eyes glaring at the shadows. Ford bit his lip, unsure how to approach this.

Good news. He found his brother (one of them at least.)

Bad news, he seemed to be in...a trance of sorts? He didn't seem to notice when the door opened right behind him, and Ford was a little too frightened of his brother's reflexes to try and get his attention. Ford stepped away and thought about it for a moment before making a decision.

Stepping farther back, far enough back that his feet his the living room's couch. (So at least ten six feet from the door.) Ford spoke quietly. Ford could be oblivious, but it was obvious that Stan wasn't to be surprised when he was so tense, especially recently.

"Stanley?" He whispered.

Nothing.

Ford tried again and cleared his throat. Stan swung around in a blink, his hand whipping around to right-hook someone that wasn't there. Ford was extremely grateful for his foresight in stepping back.

Stan's face was painted with shock as he blinked rapidly back into reality. "Ford?" He growled in question. That is until his eyes widened with horror. He had almost punched Ford right in the face! He mentally (then physically) face-palmed. This was what he had been trying to avoid.

"Sta-" Ford began, hoping to assuage any guilt before Stan apologized. His adjusted his glasses with a sigh when Stan talked over him.

"I'm sorry Sixer, I didn't mean to, really," Stan spoke over his brother, his deep voice brimmed with remorse. Ford shook his head, it wasn't Stan's fault- but Stan wasn't looking at him. His gaze had returned to the forest edge line, his tense posture returning.

"I'm sorry Ford..." Stan stepped deliberately (and silently, Ford noted) away without looking back, his feet taking him toward the trees. Ford felt like those characters in book s or movies, left scratching their heads after something particularly bamboozingly. There was nothing out there! What on earth had Stan captivated?

Just as Ford was about to follow Stan, maybe persuade him to come inside for dinner, Fiddleford came running towards the house with the largest smile, his strides long as he ran from the forest. Ford saw Stan visibly relax out of the corner of his eye as he went to great his colleague.

"F! There you are! I've been searching all over!" Ford met him half-way and Fiddleford slowed to a swift walk as they made their way back to the house.

"Howdy Stanferd! I'm glad yer here! I was out in the forest when I caught sigh' of somethin' I reckon we've never seen ba'fore!" Fiddleford pulled his rather large (for such a small man) backpack off his shoulders and began rifling through it. Ford, caught up in curiosity, continued to talk to him until they were inside the house. He didn't notice the relieved sigh or the following small coarse chuckles from behind them as Stanley followed them inside, closing the door and locking it in one swift movement as he made his way to the table.

It was getting closer, he could feel it. Stan mused on extra security measures other than baseball bats as he ate.

It was hard when he didn't know what he was defending them _from._ Stan was about to stand up and throw his plate in the sink, he could do dishes later when in his peripheral vision, a shadow flitted across the window.

A man-shaped moving shadow. Stan stiffened.

 _Crap._

* * *

 **Stan: ...Do I get to beat up those freaks? Let me at 'em!**

 **Ford: Stanley, *chuckles into his hands* You know that it's a story and you really have no effect to the overall plotline, right?**

 **Stan: But do I get ta beat 'em up?!**

 **Ford *turns to me*: Well? I suppose he won't be at rest until you tell him...**

 **Me *Snickers*: Maybe...**

 **STAN: JUST FRELLING TELL ME!**

 **Me: No, I refuse. Although there might or might not {you never know} be a hospital involved...*cackles evilly***

 **Fiddleford *walks up out of nowhere*: There ya are! I fixed your thingymabob. *Hands Ford thingy***

 **Ford: I- this isn't mine...**

 **Fiddleford *Scratches head confusedly*: ...Um. Well then, I don't rightly recall who it _does_ belong too. Guess it's yers, Happy birthday! **

**Ford *Raises eyebrow*: It's not our birthday.**

 **Stan: Yeah, and if it's his fake birthday, why didn't ya get me anything for my fake birthday? C'mon Fidds, ya gotta do better than that.**

 **Fiddleford: Yeesh, I'm gonna just go and find who owns this...*walks away***

 **Well, that got out of hand quickly. Just ah, don't do fake birthday's kids. Not with twins. Don't die! ~ My cat sends all his love!**


	18. The violence you've all been waiting for

**I'm not abandoning! Promise!  
**

* * *

"Shhh!" Stan suddenly shushed his two chatting compatriots and they both shut up, jaws clapping shut.

Stanley stood stock still, eyes trained at the window and ears strained to hear something, _anything._

 _Any information is important information._ Stan listened for an entire minute before he jerked out of his trance, making Fidds and Ford jump. Stan paid it no mind but rather pointed to Fiddleoford's banjo. _Never let the enemy know that they've been caught- you've got surprise on your side if they think they haven't been caught_.

"I need you to play a song- it doesn't matter what it is!" Stan answered the question before Fiddleford even thought to ask. Fidds glanced worriedly in his direction before complying and started strumming a random song he'd memorized. Stan glanced to Ford.

"Sing," Stan ordered. He was whispering. Ford's brow furrowed,

"Stanley, why-"

"Just do it, Ford!" Stan shot him a glare and Ford stiffened. Fiddleford began playing something Ford recognized and he began singing tensely along with the tune. Neither of them broke their gaze from Stan, who was moving slowly out of the kitchen, stepping silently towards another window. He faded from view around the corner and Ford had half a mind to get up and demand answers. He was close to doing so when his indignant brow softened as a thought came to him.

 _I know this is out of the blue, but can I hire you?_

 _What would I be doin'?_

 _Protect us, I suppose._

Ford's soft singing faltered for a note and he quickly righted himself. Fear was shooting through his veins, and by the look on Fiddleford's face, he'd pieced it together too.

The only thought other than 'please don't die' that could pervade Ford's thoughts was... _Had he been expecting this?_

It explained why he'd been so tense. Ford's foot tapped anxiously and he struggled for a moment to make the beating of his foot match the rhythm of the song.

They kept singing until the song ended. They shared glances of worry as Fiddleford suggested a new song. Ford agreed in as cheery a voice he could manage and they went off again.

Not a moment after the first chord a loud thud sounded from outside. Ford managed to stopped himself from jumping up, but Fiddleford practically flew ten feet in the air, chair flying backward. The table trembled. Ford bodily flinched. They both stilled and listened.

Silence. Ford felt fear creep up his throat.

...

Stan crept silently to the window in the living room, pushing back the curtain by the tiniest fraction.

Close to the forest's edge, he saw two men, dressed in camouflaged jackets, talking in hushed tones (since Stan couldn't hear them, it must be so.) occasionally throwing glances towards the house. Stan acted immediately, hand finding it's way to the first baseball bat he could find he circled back around towards the back door, on the opposite side of where the two men were standing.

He shut the door softly as he was able and stepped outside. He stayed close to the house's walls as he centered in on where the men were.

When he looked around the corner, he was crouched down, waiting. The men were still discussing something. Eventually one of them gestured a full circle with one hand and the other nodded. They started coming back towards the house and Stan stood up with his back against the wall.

He took a deep breath. Ears listening to every footstep they took.

 _I thought I'd gotten away from all this crap_.

The footsteps grew closer and Stan, with his entire torso, swung around the corner. The bat went straight into the first man's head. A loud _thud!_ echoed and the man dropped. Stan could only hope he wasn't dead.

The second man was presumably coming around the other side. What were they doing? It almost seemed as if they were scouting the perimeter, making a mental map of sorts.

Planning. Stan scowled as he left the first man on the ground and moved to introduce the other guy to his friend, Bat the batty baseball bat.

The threat was taken care of swiftly. Stan grabbed them both by their collars and dragged them into the house by the back door.

They had some explaining to do.

* * *

 **WHAT?! ME UPDATING?! I have NO idea what you're talking about.**

 **Okay, so...idk if this makes sense. Yeesh, I need to go reread the other chapters. This is what I get for ignoring this so long :(**

 **At least I know where it's going now, anyway.**

 **I hope that Bat the batty baseball bat was funny and not annoying. Idk where THAT particular thing came from *shudders* Idk anything anymore. Love ya'll don't die!**


End file.
